A thousand times a day Rose wished she had let Frederick alone.  Lotty, who asked her every evening whether she had sent her letter yet, exclaimed with delight when the answer at last was yes, and threw her arms round her.  “Now we shall be completely happy!” cried the enthusiastic Lotty.

But nothing seemed less certain to Rose, and her expression became more and more the expression of one who has something on her mind.

Mr. Wilkins, wanting to find out what it was, strolled in the sun in his Panama hat, and began to meet her accidentally.

“I did not know,” said Mr. Wilkins the first time, courteously raising his hat, “that you too liked this particular spot.”  And he sat down beside her.

In the afternoon she chose another spot; and she had not been in it half an hour before Mr. Wilkins, lightly swinging his cane, came round the corner.

“We are destined to meet in our rambles,” said Mr. Wilkins pleasantly.  And he sat down beside her.

Mr. Wilkins was very kind, and she had, she saw, misjudged him in Hampstead, and this was the real man, ripened like fruit by the beneficent sun of San Salvatore, but Rose did want to be alone.  Still, she was grateful to him for proving to her that though she might bore Frederick she did not bore everybody; if she had, he would not have sat talking to her on each occasion till it was time to go in.  True he bored her, but that wasn’t anything like so dreadful as if she bored him.  Then indeed her vanity would have been sadly ruffled.  For not that Rose was not able to say her prayers she was being assailed by every sort of weakness:  vanity, sensitiveness, irritability, pugnacity —­strange, unfamiliar devils to have coming crowding on one and taking possession of one’s swept and empty heart.  She had never been vain or irritable or pugnacious in her life before.  Could it be that San Salvatore was capable of opposite effects, and the same sun that ripened Mr. Wilkins made her go acid?

The next morning, so as to be sure of being alone, she went down, while Mr. Wilkins was still lingering pleasantly with Mrs. Fisher over breakfast, to the rocks by the water’s edge where she and Lotty had sat the first day.  Frederick by now had got her letter.  To-day, if he were like Mr. Wilkins, she might get a telegram from him.

She tried to silence the absurd hope by jeering at it.  Yet—­if Mr. Wilkins had telegraphed, why not Frederick?  The spell of San Salvatore lurked even, it seemed, in notepaper.  Lotty had not dreamed of getting a telegram, and when she came in at lunch-time there it was.  It would be too wonderful if when she went back at lunch-time she found one there for her too. . .

Rose clasped her hands tight round her knees.  How passionately she longed to be important to somebody again—­not important on platforms, not important as an asset in an organization, but privately important, just to one other person, quite privately, nobody else to know or notice.  It didn’t seem much to ask in a world so crowded with people, just to have one of them, only one out of all the millions, to oneself.  Somebody who needed one, who thought of one, who was eager to come to one—­oh, oh how dreadfully one wanted to be precious!