‘Who is he, Roma?’ she asked, when he had gone. ‘A friend of an uncle of my mother’s, in Florence. He sent him here.’ ‘He is nice, is he not?’ ‘I think so.’ ‘And very good-looking?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I can’t think who he reminds me of. It quite bothered me whilst he was talking; not a likeness, you know, but just a look every now and then. Why, yes, I know now!’ ‘What?’ ‘There’s a look in his eye like the picture of papa, in Aunt Olive’s room. That’s what it is. I’m glad I’ve remembered. I can’t bear being puzzled like that—it’s so irritating.’ And so Philip Debenham was to go in disguise to his own house, and meet, face to face, the man who was personating him. It was a trying situation certainly, and some little cleverness and resolution was required in the carrying out of his part. Phil did not lack cleverness, but his uncertainty and irresolution boded ill for his wish to carry things off with a high hand. He believed Tor, warned of his visit, would contrive to meet him alone, and of this he was glad; and he had little fear that his disguise would be penetrated. It was peculiarly good, and lacked any sign of the grotesque which so often, in such cases, defeats its own object, by provoking suspicion and curiosity. He looked so completely the Italian of rank and wealth, that he almost at times believed himself to be what he represented; and Tor, who _knew_ that his friend was upon the open sea, could have no reason for suspicion. Phil, as has been recorded, began boldly; but it was by a strong effort that he did so. When he stood face to face with his old friend his courage almost failed, and he was only withheld by distrust and fear from tearing off his disguise and calling out: ‘Tor, old fellow! Here I am! What are you doing? and what am I to do?’ But he restrained himself, and spoke the more coldly and threateningly from his very agitation. He grew angry and desperate as he saw how coolly and calmly Tor stood his ground, and parried attacks which he thought would have forced him to lay down his arms. To see this man standing before him, assuming his name and station, and almost scoffing at his well-aimed blows, was too much, and Phil felt lashed into fury. He charged him straight out with wronging his friend; and then Tor gave such a bold, fearless denial to the charge, that, in spite of himself, Phil’s distrust was shaken. It seemed his fate at this time to make up his mind that Tor was a villain, only to have this conviction shaken by some earnest assurance or chance discovery; and then, hardly had the balance weighed down upon the side of friendship, before some new revelation would wake up all the old animosity and fear.