“I trust we may meet again,” was Mr. Musselwhite’s next sentence.  It cost him an effort; he reddened a little, and moved his feet about.

“There is no foreseeing.  I—­we—­I am sorry to say my father has brought us rather unpleasant news.”

She knew not whether it was a stroke of policy, or grossly imprudent, to make this confession.  But it came to her lips, and she uttered it half in recklessness.  It affected Mr. Musselwhite strangely.  His countenance fell, and a twinge seemed to catch one of his legs; at the same time it made him fluent.

“I grieve to hear that, Miss Denyer; I grieve indeed.  Your departure would have been bad enough, but I really grieve to think you should have cause of distress.”

“Thank you for your sympathy, Mr. Musselwhite.”

“But perhaps we may meet again in England, for all that?  Will you permit me to give you my London address—­a—­a little club that I belong to, and where my friends often send letters?  I mean that I should be so very glad if it were ever possible for me to serve you in any trifle.  As you know, I don’t keep any—­any establishment in England at present; but possibly—­as you say, there is no anticipating the future.  I should be very happy indeed if we chanced to meet, there or abroad.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Musselwhite.”

“If I might ask you for your own probable address?”

“It is so uncertain.  But I am sure mamma would have pleasure in sending it, when we arc settled.”

“Thank you so very much.”  He looked up after long meditation.  “I really do not know what I shall do when you are gone, Miss Denyer.”

And then, without warning, he said good-night and walked away.  Barbara, who had thought that the conversation was just about to become interesting, felt her heart sink into unfathomable depths.  She went back to her bedroom and cried wretchedly for a long time.

In consequence of private talk with his wife, when the family conclave had broken up, Mr. Denyer went in search of Clifford Marsh.  They had met only once hitherto, six months ago, when Mr. Denyer paid a flying visit to London, and had just time to make the acquaintance of his prospective son-in-law.  This afternoon they walked together for an hour about the Chiaia, with the result that an understanding of some kind seemed to be arrived at between them,

Mr. Denyer returned to the pension, and, when dinnertime approached, surprised Madeline with the proposal that she should come out and dine with him at a restaurant.

“The fact is,” he whispered to her, with a laugh, “my appearance is not quite up to the standard of your dinner-table.  I’m rather too careless about these things; it’s doubtful whether I possess a decent suit.  Let us go and find a quiet corner somewhere—­if a fashionable young lady will do me so much honour.”