Mr. Blanco Serena sat among his pictures. He wore an Eastern dressing-gown, and smoked a fantastically twisted meerschaum pipe. His eyes were fixed with rapt attention on the walls where his own handiwork was displayed; but when Madeline came in, he withdrew his gaze, collected his thoughts, and gave her a kindly welcome. To all his congratulations Madeline listened quietly, then she took her place before the painter, and, as he painted, her thoughts wandered to the past. ‘Ah, those eyes, those eyes,’ thought Serena to himself as he painted rapidly. ‘I cannot put them on canvas. The critics will rave about my “Ophelia,” but their praise will never satisfy me. If I could only paint the expression of that face I should think myself the genius they call me, not the poor impostor I know myself to be.’ Nevertheless, he tried and tried again, while Madeline sat patiently. Presently the studio door was opened, and with much ceremony, but no announcement, a stranger was shown in. CHAPTER XXI.--A WALK ACROSS HYDE PARK. The new-comer was a tall, robust-looking man in the prime of life, who was dressed with the utmost neatness and exactness, in the plain frock coat and grey-coloured trousers so much in favour among so-called business men Despite the ceremony with which he was introduced, and which showed that he was an individual of no small importance, his manner was modest and retiring in the extreme, and he looked around him on the splendid temple of modern painting, and at its famous owner, with smiling and good-humoured homage. Serena put down his brush at once, and warmly shook hands. Then, seeing Madeline, the new-comer made a movement as if to retire. ‘I am afraid I interrupt you,’ he exclaimed. But before he could say more, Madeline came forward gently, and offered her hand. ‘Miss Hazelmere!’ he exclaimed, recognising her; ‘or shall I rather call you by the name you’ve already made so famous?’ ‘You know each other?’ interrupted Serena, with some surprise. ‘Oh yes,’ cried Madeline, smiling. ‘Mr. Forster and I are old, old friends.’ At this statement even the new-comer himself evinced some surprise; but Madeline continued-- ‘When I was only a very little girl, Mr. Forster, I remember how you came to see my guardian one day when he was sick, and how, when you went away, he cried and told me how good you were. You came often after that, and we used to talk of you together. And the other night at the theatre, when I saw your face in the box, I felt so glad, and I said to myself, “I won’t be afraid now, for there are at least two kind faces in front--one my dear guardian’s, the other the face of the best friend he ever had in the world.”’ Under this simple praise Forster looked a little uncomfortable. ‘How is White?’ he inquired nervously, as if for want of something better to say. Madeline did not immediately reply, so Serena answered for her.