“Nobody has ever married Kate,” said Mrs. Fisher complacently.

“Quite so.  Miss Lumley does not arrive to-day in any case, Lady Caroline, and Mr. Briggs has—­unfortunately, if I may say so—­to continue his journey to-morrow, so that his staying would in no way interfere with Miss Lumley’s possible movements.”

“Then of course I join in the invitation,” said Scrap, with what was to Briggs the most divine cordiality.

He stammered something, flushing scarlet, and Scrap thought, “Oh,” and turned her head away; but that merely made Briggs acquainted with her profile, and if there existed anything more lovely than Scrap’s full face it was her profile.

Well, it was only for this one afternoon and evening.  He would leave, no doubt, the first thing in the morning.  It took hours to get to Rome.  Awful if he hung on till the night train.  She had a feeling that the principal express to Rome passed through at night.  Why hadn’t that woman Kate Lumley arrived yet?  She had forgotten all about her, but now she remembered she was to have been invited a fortnight ago.  What had become of her?  This man, once let in, would come and see her in London, would haunt the places she was likely to go to.  He had the makings, her experienced eye could see, of a passionately persistent grabber.

“If,” thought Mr. Wilkins, observing Briggs’s face and sudden silence, “any understanding existed between this young fellow and Mrs. Arbuthnot, there is now going to be trouble.  Trouble of a different nature from the kind I feared, in which Arbuthnot would have played a leading part, in fact the part of petitioner, but trouble that may need help and advice none the less for its not being publicly scandalous.  Briggs, impelled by his passions and her beauty, will aspire to the daughter of the Droitwiches.  She, naturally and properly, will repel him.  Mrs. Arbuthnot, left in the cold, will be upset and show it.  Arbuthnot, on his arrival will find his wife in enigmatic tears.  Inquiring into their cause, he will be met with an icy reserve.  More trouble may then be expected, and in me they will seek and find their adviser.  When Lotty said Mrs. Arbuthnot wanted her husband, she was wrong.  What Mrs. Arbuthnot wants is Briggs, and it looks uncommonly as if she were not going to get him.  Well, I’m their man.”

“Where are your things, Mr. Briggs?” asked Mrs. Fisher, her voice round with motherliness.  “Oughtn’t they to be fetched?” For the sun was nearly in the sea now, and the sweet-smelling April dampness that followed immediately on its disappearance was beginning to steal into the garden.

Briggs started.  “My things?” he repeated.  “Oh yes—­I must fetch them.  They’re in Mezzago.  I’ll send Domenico.  My fly is waiting in the village.  He can go back in it.  I’ll go and tell him.”

He got up.  To whom was he talking?  To Mrs. Fisher, ostensibly, yet his eyes were fixed on Scrap, who said nothing and looked at no one.