Mr. Briggs, however, was too much alive for her to be able to spare any attention at this moment for Frederick, and she praised the servants in answer to his questions, and praised the yellow sitting-room without telling him she had only been in it once and then was ignominiously ejected, and she told him she knew hardly anything about art and curiosities, but thought perhaps if somebody would tell her about them she would know more, and she said she had spent every day since her arrival out-of-doors, because out-of-doors there was so very wonderful and different from anything she had ever seen.

Briggs walked by her side along his paths that were yet so happily for the moment her paths, and felt all the innocent glows of family life.  He was an orphan and an only child, and had a warm, domestic disposition.  He would have adored a sister and spoilt a mother, and was beginning at this time to think of marrying; for though he had been very happy with his various loves, each of whom, contrary to the usual experience, turned ultimately into his devoted friend, he was fond of children and thought he had perhaps now got to the age of settling if he did not wish to be too old by the time his eldest son was twenty.  San Salvatore had latterly seemed a little forlorn.  He fancied it echoed when he walked about it.  He had felt lonely there; so lonely that he had preferred this year to miss out a spring and let it.  It wanted a wife in it.  It wanted that final touch of warmth and beauty, for he never thought of his wife except in terms of warmth and beauty—­she would of course be beautiful and kind.  It amused him how much in love with this vague wife he was already.

At such a rate was he making friends with the lady with the sweet name as he walked along the path towards the lighthouse, that he was sure presently he would be telling her everything about himself and his past doings and his future hopes; and the thought of such a swiftly developing confidence made him laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” she asked, looking at him and smiling.

“It’s so like coming home,” he said.

“But it is coming home for you to come here.”

“I mean really like coming home.  To one’s—­one’s family.  I never had a family.  I’m an orphan.”

“Oh, are you?” said Rose with the proper sympathy.  “I hope you’ve not been one very long.  No—­I don’t mean I hope you have been one very long.  No—­I don’t know what I mean, except that I’m sorry.”

He laughed again.  “Oh I’m used to it.  I haven’t anybody.  No sisters or brothers.”

“Then you’re an only child,” she observed intelligently.

“Yes.  And there’s something about you that’s exactly my idea of a—­of a family.”

She was amused.

“So—­cosy,” he said, looking at her and searching for a word.

“You wouldn’t think so if you saw my house in Hampstead,” she said, a vision of that austere and hard-seated dwelling presenting itself to her mind, with nothing soft in it except the shunned and neglected Du Barri sofa.  No wonder, she thought, for a moment clear-brained, that Frederick avoided it.  There was nothing cosy about his family.