Tor did his bidding readily, with the same consciousness of humbug that he had before experienced; but this time the comical side of the situation was uppermost in his mind. The blind man felt his face carefully, passing his hands repeatedly over the boldly cut features; but his own face assumed an expression of disappointment. ‘Not a Debenham face either,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘You are only a Debenham in name, boy.’ Tor smiled as he rose to his feet, thinking how much nearer than he knew, was the blind man to his mark. Maud laughed brightly. ‘Phil has struck out quite a new line for himself; and I am glad of it,’ she said gaily. ‘I like him to be different from everybody else.’ ‘Ah, yes! you are a child—you are a child,’ returned Michael Meredith, with a gentle sigh. ‘You do not understand these things. But let that pass—let that pass. It is, after all, only an old man’s fancy. Come and sit beside me, Philip. Tell me of yourself, your travels, and of my beloved Italy. You must be familiar enough with that, I imagine. Who does not love Italy?’ Tor was at his ease now, and in his element. He could talk well and fluently of what he had seen and what he had done in distant lands. His tales were not as marvellous and thrilling as those of many travellers; his rovings had not extended, for the most part, beyond the regions of civilization, but he had had adventures enough and to spare, and experiences of every description, and he could tell a story graphically and well. Maud listened delightedly for a long while, but when the talk turned upon Italy and Italian art and society, her attention waned somewhat, and presently she slipped quietly from the room. She made her way under an arched doorway, and down a long flagged passage, which led to some building independent of the house, and only connected with it by this passage. At the end was a red-baize door, which opened noiselessly into a great bare room lighted from the roof, which, as could be seen at a glance, was a sculptor’s studio. There was only one living occupant to this large silent place, and that was a girl, who was so intent at work over a group in terra cotta, that she had not heard the quiet entrance of her visitor. Roma Meredith was very handsome, with a dark, majestic, southern beauty, which she had inherited from her Italian mother. She had magnificent dark eyes, and masses of hair of an intense blue-black, and her figure was tall and perfectly proportioned, and her proud still features were faultless as those of a Grecian statue. ‘Roma!’ cried Maud softly. ‘Roma, I have brought Phil to see your father. He is such a sweet darling boy! You must come and see him.’ Roma looked up at the sound of Maud’s voice, and a faint smile awoke in her eyes; but it died away again as the sentence proceeded. ‘I am busy, Maud. You know that daylight-time is precious.’ ‘Bother your old statues, Roma! You must come and see Phil. He _is_ so handsome, and such an angel-boy!’