‘I think I should have tried,’ said Wych Hazel,—­’knowing I should fail.  And then I should have thrown away my own favour, and gone with him wherever he went.’

‘He wouldn’t have let you do that either,’ said Rollo.

‘Then he would not have loved me as I loved him,’ said the girl, very decidedly.

‘He’d have been a pretty fellow!’ said Rollo, as he turned the next print.  It was a contrast to the St. Bartholomew; a Madonna and child, from Fra Bartholomeo, at which they were all content to look silently.  Rollo began to talk, then, instead of asking questions, and made himself very interesting.  So much he knew of art matters, so many a story and legend he could tell about the masters, and so well he could help the less initiated to enjoy and understand the work.  So letting himself out in a sort of play-fashion, the portfolio proved the nucleus of a delightful hour’s entertainment.  At the end of that time a turn was given to things by the coming in of an old black woman with a very high, coloured turban on her head and a teakettle and a chafing dish of coals in her hands.  Rollo shut up his portfolio.

’What is your view, practically, of things at present, Miss Kennedy?’

’Mr. Falkirk says I never took a practical view of things in my life, Mr. Rollo.  The impracticable view seems to be, that it is tea time and I ought to go home.’

’What do you think of the plan of letting Mr. Falkirk know where you are?’

‘Yes, I ought to do that,’ said his ward, ’Where is Dingee?—­I will send him right off.’

‘Will you write, or shall I?’ said Rollo, drawing out paper and pen ready on one of the tables.

She glanced at him as if in momentary wonder that he should offer to write her despatch, then ran off the most summary little note, twisted it into a knot of complications, and again asked for Dingee.  Rollo gently but saucily put his own fingers upon the twisted note and bore it away.

The business of the tea-making and preparing was going on; and both Primrose and her old assistant bustled about the tea table, getting things ready and Dr. Maryland’s chair in its right place.  A quiet bustle, very pleasant in the eyes of Wych Hazel, with all its homely and sweet meanings.  The light had softened a little, and still came through a grey veil of rain; odours of rose and sweet-briar and evening primroses floated in on the warm, moist air, and mingled with the steam of the tea-kettle and the fume in the chafing-dish; and the patter, patter of rain drops, and the dash of wet leaves against each other, were a foil to the tea-kettle’s song.  Wych Hazel looked on, musingly, till Rollo came back and took her round the room looking at books.  Then offering her his arm, he somewhat suddenly brought her face to face with some one just entering by the door.

An old gentleman; Wych Hazel knew at once who it must be.  Middle-sized, stout, with rather thin locks of white hair, and a face not otherwise remarkable than for its look of habitual high thought and pure goodness.  It took but a moment to see so much of him.  She stopped short, and then came close up to him.