But Connie rarely said a word.  She was handling the situation indeed with great discretion; though with an impetuous will.  She herself had withdrawn from the Greek lessons, on the plea that she was attending some English history lectures; that she must really find out who fought the battle of Hastings; and was too lazy to do anything else.  Sometimes she would linger in the schoolroom till Sorell arrived, and then he would look at her wistfully, when she prepared to depart, as though to say—­“Was this what I bargained for?”

But she always laughed and went.  And presently as she crossed the hall again, and heard animated voices in the schoolroom, her brown eyes would show a merry satisfaction.

Meanwhile Nora was growing thinner and handsomer day by day.  She was shedding awkwardness without any loss of that subacid sincerity that was her charm.  Connie, as much as she dared, took her dressing in hand.  She was never allowed to give a thing; but Annette’s fingers were quick and clever, and Nora’s Spartan garb was sometimes transformed by them under the orders of a coaxing or audacious Constance.  The mere lifting of the load of care had let the young plant shoot.  So that many persons passing Ewen Hooper’s second daughter in the street would turn round now to look at her in surprise.  Was that really the stout, podgy schoolgirl, who had already, by virtue of her strong personality, made a certain impression in the university town?  People had been vaguely sorry for her; or vaguely thought of her as plain but good.  Alice of course was pretty; Nora had the virtues.  And now here she was, bursting into good looks more positive than her sister’s.

The girl’s heart indeed was young at last, for the neighbourhood of Connie was infectious.  The fairy-godmothering of that young woman was going finely.  It was the secret hope at the centre of her own life which was playing like captured sunshine upon all the persons about her.  Her energy was prodigious.  Everything to do with money matters had been practically settled between her and Sorell and Uncle Ewen; and settled in Connie’s way, expressed no doubt in business form.  And now she was insisting firmly on the holiday visit to Rome, in spite of many protests from Uncle Ewen and Nora.  It was a promise, she declared.  Rome—­Rome—­was their fate.  She wrote endless letters, enquiring for rooms, and announcing their coming to her old friends.  Uncle Ewen soon had the startled impression that all Rome was waiting for them, and that they could never live up to it.

Finally, Connie persuaded them to settle on rooms in a well-known small hotel, overlooking the garden-front of the Palazzo Barberini, where she had grown up.  She wrote to the innkeeper, Signor B., “a very old friend of mine,” who replied that the “amici” of the “distintissima signorina” should be most tenderly looked after.  As for the contessas and marchesas who wrote, eagerly promising