He broke off and looked round.  “I say,” he asked, “oughtn’t I to have a fourth hostess?  Francesca said she had four mistresses.”

“Yes.  There’s Lady Caroline,” said Lotty.

“Then hadn’t we better find out first if she invites me too?”

“Oh, but she’s sure—­” began Lotty.

“The daughter of the Droitwiches, Briggs,” said Mr. Wilkins, “is not likely to be wanting in the proper hospitable impulses.”

“The daughter of the—­” repeated Briggs; but he stopped dead, for there in the doorway was the daughter of the Droitwiches herself; or rather, coming towards him out of the dark doorway into the brightness of the sunset, was that which he had not in his life yet seen but only dreamed of, his ideal of absolute liveliness.

Chapter 19

And then when she spoke . . . what chance was there for poor Briggs?  He was undone.  All Scrap said was, “How do you do,” on Mr. Wilkins presenting him, but it was enough; it undid Briggs.

From a cheerful, chatty, happy young man, overflowing with life and friendliness, he became silent, solemn, and with little beads on his temples.  Also he became clumsy, dropping the teaspoon as he handed her her cup, mismanaging the macaroons, so that one rolled on the ground.  His eyes could not keep off the enchanting face for a moment; and when Mr. Wilkins, elucidating him, for he failed to elucidate himself, informed Lady Caroline that in Mr. Briggs she beheld the owner of San Salvatore, who was on his way to Rome, but had got out at Mezzago, etc. etc., and that the other three ladies had invited him to spend the night in what was to all intents and purposes his own house rather than an hotel, and Mr. Briggs was only waiting for the seal of her approval to this invitation, she being the fourth hostess—­when Mr. Wilkins, balancing his sentences and being admirably clear and enjoying the sound of his own cultured voice, explained the position in this manner to Lady Caroline, Briggs sat and said never a word.

A deep melancholy invaded Scrap.  The symptoms of the incipient grabber were all there and only too familiar, and she knew that if Briggs stayed her rest-cure might be regarded as over.

Then Kate Lumley occurred to her.  She caught at Kate as at a straw.

“It would have been delightful,” she said, faintly smiling at Briggs—­she could not in decency not smile, at least a little, but even a little betrayed the dimple, and Briggs’s eyes became more fixed than ever—­“I’m only wondering if there is room.”

“Yes, there is,” said Lotty.  “There’s Kate Lumley’s room.”

“I thought,” said Scrap to Mrs. Fisher, and it seemed to Briggs that he had never heard music till now, “your friend was expected immediately.”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Fisher—­with an odd placidness, Scrap thought.

“Miss Lumley,” said Mr. Wilkins, “—­or should I,” he inquired of Mrs. Fisher, “say Mrs.?”