“You must forgive me,” he said.  “Lady Droitwich told me where you were, and as I happened to be passing through on my way to Rome I thought I would get out at Mezzago and just look in and see how you were.”

“But—­didn’t my mother tell you I was doing a rest-cure?”

Yes.  She did.  And that’s why I haven’t intruded on you earlier in the day.  I thought you would probably sleep all day, and wake up about now so as to be fed.”

“But—­”

“I know.  I’ve got nothing to say in excuse.  I couldn’t help myself.”

“This,” thought Scrap, “comes of mother insisting on having authors to lunch, and me being so much more amiable in appearance than I really am.”

She had been amiable to Ferdinand Arundel; she liked him—­or rather she did not dislike him.  He seemed a jovial, simple man, and had the eyes of a nice dog.  Also, though it was evident that he admired her, he had not in London grabbed.  There he had merely been a good-natured, harmless person of entertaining conversation, who helped to make luncheons agreeable.  Now it appeared that he too was a grabber.  Fancy following her out there—­daring to.  Nobody else had.  Perhaps her mother had given him the address because she considered him so absolutely harmless, and thought he might be useful and see her home.

Well, whatever he was he couldn’t possibly give her the trouble an active young man like Mr. Briggs might give her.  Mr. Briggs, infatuated, would be reckless, she felt, would stick at nothing, would lose his head publicly.  She could imagine Mr. Briggs doing things with rope-ladders, and singing all night under her window—­being really difficult and uncomfortable.  Mr. Arundel hadn’t the figure for any kind of recklessness.  He had lived too long and too well.  She was sure he couldn’t sing, and wouldn’t want to.  He must be at least forty.  How many good dinners could not a man have eaten by the time he was forty?  And if during that time instead of taking exercise he had sat writing books, he would quite naturally acquire the figure Mr. Arundel had in fact acquired—­the figure rather for conversation than adventure.

Scrap, who had become melancholy at the sight of Briggs, became philosophical at the sight of Arundel.  Here he was.  She couldn’t send him away till after dinner.  He must be nourished.

This being so, she had better make the best of it, and do that with a good grace which anyhow wasn’t to be avoided.  Besides, he would be a temporary shelter from Mr. Briggs.  She was at least acquainted with Ferdinand Arundel, and could hear news from him of her mother and her friends, and such talk would put up a defensive barrier at dinner between herself and the approaches of the other one.  And it was only for one dinner, and he couldn’t eat her.

She therefore prepared herself for friendliness.  “I’m to be fed,” she said, ignoring his last remark, “at eight, and you must come up and be fed too.  Sit down and get cool and tell me how everybody is.”