“I don’t believe any place you lived in could be anything but exactly like you,” he said.

“You’re not going to pretend San Salvatore is like me?”

“Indeed I do pretend it.  Surely you admit that it is beautiful?”

He said several things like that.  She enjoyed her walk.  She could not recollect any walk so pleasant since her courting days.

She came back to tea, bringing Mr. Briggs, and looking quite different, Mr. Wilkins noticed, from what she had looked till then.  Trouble here, trouble here, thought Mr. Wilkins, mentally rubbing his professional hands.  He could see himself being called in presently to advise.  On the one hand there was Arbuthnot, on the other hand here was Briggs.  Trouble brewing, trouble sooner or later.  But why had Briggs’s telegram acted on the lady like a blow?  If she had turned pale from excess of joy, then trouble was nearer than he had supposed.  She was not pale now; she was more like her name than he had yet seen her.  Well, he was the man for trouble.  He regretted, of course, that people should get into it, but being in he was their man.

And Mr. Wilkins, invigorated by these thoughts, his career being very precious to him, proceeded to assist in doing the honours to Mr. Briggs, both in his quality of sharer in the temporary ownership of San Salvatore and of probable helper out of difficulties, with great hospitality, and pointed out the various features of the place to him, and led him to the parapet and showed him Mezzago across the bay.

Mrs. Fisher too was gracious.  This was this young man’s house.  He was a man of property.  She liked property, and she liked men of property.  Also there seemed a peculiar merit in being a man of property so young.  Inheritance, of course; and inheritance was more respectable than acquisition.  It did indicate fathers; and in an age where most people appeared neither to have them nor to want them she liked this too.

Accordingly it was a pleasant meal, with everybody amiable and pleased.  Briggs thought Mrs. Fisher a dear old lady, and showed he thought so; and again the magic worked, and she became a dear old lady.  She developed benignity with him, and a kind of benignity which was almost playful—­actually before tea was over including in some observation she made him the words “My dear boy.”

Strange words in Mrs. Fisher’s mouth.  It is doubtful whether in her life she had used them before.  Rose was astonished.  Now nice people really were.  When would she leave off making mistakes about them?  She hadn’t suspected this side of Mrs. Fisher, and she began to wonder whether those other sides of her with which alone she was acquainted had not perhaps after all been the effect of her own militant and irritating behaviour.  Probably they were.  How horrid, then, she must have been.  She felt very penitent when she saw Mrs. Fisher beneath her eyes blossoming out into real amiability the moment some one came