“Mother said that?” Scrap interrupted, surprised.

And presently Lady Droitwich began to do amusing things as well as say them.

“Mother did that?” Scrap inquired, wide-eyed.

Arundel warmed to his work.  He fathered some of the most entertaining ideas he had lately had on to Lady Droitwich, and also any charming funny things that had been done—­or might have done, for he could imagine almost anything.

Scrap’s eyes grew round with wonder and affectionate pride in her mother.  Why, but how funny—–­fancy mother.  What an old darling.  Did she really do that?  How perfectly adorable of her.  And did she really say—­but how wonderful of her to think of it.  What sort of a face did Lloyd George make?

She laughed and laughed, and had a great longing to hug her mother, and the time flew, and it grew quite dusk, and it grew nearly dark, and Mr. Arundel still went on amusing her, and it was a quarter to eight before she suddenly remembered dinner.

“Oh, good heavens!” she exclaimed, jumping up.

“Yes.  It’s late,” said Arundel.

“I’ll go on quickly and send the maid to you.  I must run, or I’ll never be ready in time—­”

And she was gone up the path with the swiftness of a young, slender deer.

Arundel followed.  He did not wish to arrive too hot, so had to go slowly.  Fortunately he was near the top, and Francesca came down the pergola to pilot him indoors, and having shown him where he could wash she put him in the empty drawing-room to cool himself by the crackling wood fire.

He got as far away from the fire as he could, and stood in one of the deep window-recesses looking out at the distant lights of Mezzago.  The drawing-room door was open, and the house was quiet with the hush that precedes dinner, when the inhabitants are all shut up in their rooms dressing.  Briggs in his room was throwing away spoilt tie after spoilt tie; Scrap in hers was hurrying into a black frock with a vague notion that Mr. Briggs wouldn’t be able to see her so clearly in black; Mrs. Fisher was fastening the lace shawl, which nightly transformed her day dress into her evening dress, with the brooch Ruskin had given her on her marriage, formed of two pearl lilies tied together by a blue enamel ribbon on which was written in gold letters Esto perpetua; Mr. Wilkins was sitting on the edge of his bed brushing his wife’s hair—­ thus far in this third week had he progressed in demonstrativeness—­ while she, for her part, sitting on a chair in front of him, put his studs in a clean shirt; and Rose, ready dressed, sat at her window considering her day.

Rose was quite aware of what had happened to Mr. Briggs.  If she had had any difficulty about it, Lotty would have removed it by the frank comments she made while she and Rose sat together after tea on the wall.  Lotty was delighted at more love being introduced into San Salvatore, even if it were only one-sided, and said that when once Rose’s husband was there she didn’t suppose, now that Mrs. Fisher too had at last come unglued—­Rose protested at the expression, and Lotty retorted that it was in Keats—­there would be another place in the world more swarming with happiness than San Salvatore.