deal of sitting down
in warm, thyme-fragrant corners, and if anything could have helped Rose
to recover from the bitter disappointment of the morning it would have
been the company and conversation of Mr. Briggs. He did help her to
recover, and the same process took place as that which Lotty had
undergone with her husband, and the more Mr. Briggs thought Rose
charming the more charming she became.

Briggs was a man incapable of concealments, who never lost time
if he could help it. They had not got to the end of the headland where
the lighthouse is--Briggs asked her to show him the lighthouse, because
the path to it, he knew, was wide enough for two to walk abreast and
fairly level--before he had told her of the impression she made on him
in London.

Since even the most religious, sober women like to know they have
made an impression, particularly the kind that has nothing to do with
character or merits, Rose was pleased. Being pleased, she smiled.
Smiling, she was more attractive than ever. Colour came into her
cheeks, and brightness into her eyes. She heard herself saying things
that really sounded quite interesting and even amusing. If Frederick
were listening now, she thought, perhaps he would see that she couldn't
after all be such a hopeless bore; for here was a man, nice-looking,
young, and surely clever--he seemed clever, and she hoped he was, for
then the compliment would be still greater--who was evidently quite
happy to spend the afternoon just talking to her.

And indeed Mr. Briggs seemed very much interested. He wanted to
hear all about everything she had been doing from the moment she got
there. He asked her if she had seen this, that, and the other in the
house, what she liked best, which room she had, if she were
comfortable, if Francesca was behaving, if Domenico took care of her,
and whether she didn't enjoy using the yellow sitting-room--the one
that got all the sun and looked out towards Genoa.

Rose was ashamed how little she had noticed in the house, and how
few of the things he spoke of as curious or beautiful in it she had
even seen. Swamped in thought of Frederick, she appeared to have lived
in San Salvatore blindly, and more than half the time had gone, and
what had been the good of it? She might just as well have been sitting
hankering on Hampstead Heath. No, she mightn't; through all her
hankerings she had been conscious that she was at least in the very
heart of beauty; and i