“But—­do you think he’ll come?

“Oh, I hope so,” said Lotty with the utmost earnestness; and added, “Poor lamb.”

At that Rose felt she would like to sit down.  Mellersh a poor lamb?  That same Mellersh who a few hours before was mere shimmer?  There was a seat at the bend of the path, and Rose went to it and sat down.  She wished to get her breath, gain time.  If she had time she might perhaps be able to catch up the leaping Lotty, and perhaps be able to stop her before she committed herself to what she probably presently would be sorry for.  Mellersh at San Salvatore?  Mellersh, from whom Lotty had taken such pains so recently to escape?

“I see him here,” said Lotty, as if in answer to her thoughts.

Rose looked at her with real concern:  for every time Lotty said in that convinced voice, “I see,” what she saw came true.  Then it was to be supposed that Mr. Wilkins too would presently come true.

“I wish,” said Rose anxiously, “I understood you.”

“Don’t try,” said Lotty, smiling.

“But I must, because I love you.”

“Dear Rose,” said Lotty, swiftly bending down and kissing her.

“You’re so quick,” said Rose.  “I can’t follow your developments.  I can’t keep touch.  It was what happened with Freder—­”

She broke off and looked frightened.

“The whole idea of our coming here,” she went on again, as Lotty didn’t seem to have noticed, “was to get away, wasn’t it?  Well, we’ve got away.  And now, after only a single day of it, you want to write to the very people—­”

She stopped.

“The very people we were getting away from,” finished Lotty.  “It’s quite true.  It seems idiotically illogical.  But I’m so happy, I’m so well, I feel so fearfully wholesome.  This place—­why, it makes me feel flooded with love.”

And she stared down at Rose in a kind of radiant surprise.

Rose was silent a moment.  Then she said, “And do you think it will have the same effect on Mr. Wilkins?”

Lotty laughed.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “But even if it doesn’t, there’s enough love about to flood fifty Mr. Wilkinses, as you call him.  The great thing is to have lots of love about.  I don’t see,” she went on, “at least I don’t see here, though I did at home, that it matters who loves as long as somebody does.  I was a stingy beast at home, and used to measure and count.  I had a queer obsession about justice.  As though justice mattered.  As though justice can really be distinguished from vengeance.  It’s only love that’s any good.  At home I wouldn’t love Mellersh unless he loved me back, exactly as much, absolute fairness.  Did you ever.  And as he didn’t, neither did I, and the aridity of that house!  The aridity . . .”

Rose said nothing.  She was bewildered by Lotty.  One odd effect of San Salvatore on her rapidly developing friend was her sudden free use of robust words.  She had not used them in Hampstead.  Beast and dog were more robust than Hampstead cared about.  In words, too, Lotty had come unchained.