, and alarm,
exclaimed--and his color changed--

"Why, it's Manfred in the Coliseum!"

Lawrence Newt was confounded. Was Arthur, then, not deceiving himself,
after all? Did he really take an interest in all these people only as a
painter, and think of them merely as subjects for pictures?

Lawrence Newt was troubled. He had seen in Arthur with delight what he
supposed the unconscious beginnings of affection for Hope Wayne. He had
pleased himself in bringing them together--of course Amy Waring must be
present too when he himself was, that any _tete-a-tete_ which arose might
not be interrupted--and he had dreamed the most agreeable dreams. He knew
Hope--he knew Arthur--it was evidently the hand of Heaven. He had even
mentioned it confidentially to Amy Waring, who was profoundly interested,
and who charitably did the same offices for Arthur with Hope Wayne that
Lawrence Newt did for the young candidates with her. The conversation
about the picture of Diana had only confirmed Lawrence Newt in his
conviction that Arthur Merlin really loved Hope Wayne, whether he himself
knew it or not.

And now was he all wrong, after all? Ridiculous! How could he be?

He tried to persuade himself that he was not. But he could not forget
how persistently Arthur had spoken of Hope only as a fine Diana; and how,
after evidently being struck with Abel Newt, he had merely exclaimed,
with a kind of suppressed excitement, as if he saw what a striking
picture he would make, "Manfred in the Coliseum!"

Lawrence Newt drank a glass of wine, thoughtfully. Then he smiled
inwardly.

"It is not the first time I have been mistaken," thought he. "I shall
have to take Amy Waring's advice about it."

As he and his friend passed the other table, on their way out, Abel
nodded to his uncle; and as Arthur Merlin looked at him carefully, he was
very sure that he saw the person whose face so singularly resembled that
of Manfred's in the picture he had given Hope Wayne.

"I am all wrong," thought Lawrence Newt, ruefully, as they passed out
into the street.

"Abel Newt, then, is Hope Wayne's somebody," thought Arthur Merlin, as he
took his friend's arm.

CHAPTER XXXII.

MRS. THEODORE KINGFISHER AT HOME. _On dansera._

Society stared when it beheld Miss Hope Wayne entering the drawing-room
of Mrs. Theodore Kingfisher.

"Really, Miss Wayne, I am delighted," said Mrs. Kingfisher, with a smile
that might have been made at the same shop with the