“I was determined to find you first,” he said, “before I go to Rose.”  And he added quickly, “I want to kiss your shoes.”

“Do you?” said Scrap, smiling.  “Then I must go and put on my new ones.  These aren’t nearly good enough.”

She felt immensely well-disposed towards Frederick.  He, at least, would grab no more.  His grabbing days, so sudden and so brief, were done.  Nice man; agreeable man.  She now definitely liked him.  Clearly he had been getting into some sort of a tangle, and she was grateful to Lotty for stopping her in time at dinner from saying something hopelessly complicating.  But whatever he had been getting into he was out of it now; his face and Rose’s face had the same light in them.

“I shall adore you for ever now,” said Frederick.

Scrap smiled.  “Shall you?” she said.

“I adored you before because of your beauty.  Now I adore you because you’re not only as beautiful as a dream but as decent as a man.”

“When the impetuous young woman,” Frederick went on, “the blessedly impetuous young woman, blurted out in the nick of time that I am Rose’s husband, you behaved exactly as a man would have behaved to his friend.”

“Did I?” said Scrap, her enchanting dimple very evident.

“It’s the rarest, most precious of combinations,” said Frederick, “to be a woman and have the loyalty of a man.”

“Is it?” smiled Scrap, a little wistfully.  These were indeed handsome compliments.  If only she were really like that . . .

“And I want to kiss your shoes.”

“Won’t this save trouble?” she asked, holding out her hand.

He took it and swiftly kissed it, and was hurrying away again.  “Bless you,” he said as he went.

“Where is your luggage?” Scrap called after him.

“Oh, Lord, yes—­” said Frederick, pausing.  “It’s at the station.”

“I’ll send for it.”

He disappeared through the bushes.  She went indoors to give the order; and this is how it happened that Domenico, for the second time that evening, found himself journeying into Mezzago and wondering as he went.

Then, having made the necessary arrangements for the perfect happiness of these two people, she came slowly out into the garden again, very much absorbed in thought.  Love seemed to bring happiness to everybody but herself.  It had certainly got hold of everybody there, in its different varieties, except herself.  Poor Mr. Briggs had been got hold of by its least dignified variety.  Poor Mr. Briggs.  He was a disturbing problem, and his going away next day wouldn’t she was afraid solve him.

When she reached the others Mr. Arundel—­she kept on forgetting that he wasn’t Mr. Arundel—­was already, his arm through Rose’s, going off with her, probably to the greater seclusion of the lower garden.  No doubt they had a great deal to say to each other; something had gone wrong between them, and had suddenly been put right.  San Salvatore, Lotty would say, San Salvatore working its spell of happiness.  She could quite believe in its spell.  Even she was happier there than she had been for ages and ages.  The only person who would go empty away would be Mr. Briggs.