face and sudden
silence, "any understanding existed between this young fellow and Mrs.
Arbuthnot, there is now going to be trouble. Trouble of a different
nature from the kind I feared, in which Arbuthnot would have played a
leading part, in fact the part of petitioner, but trouble that may need
help and advice none the less for its not being publicly scandalous.
Briggs, impelled by his passions and her beauty, will aspire to the
daughter of the Droitwiches. She, naturally and properly, will repel
him. Mrs. Arbuthnot, left in the cold, will be upset and show it.
Arbuthnot, on his arrival will find his wife in enigmatic tears.
Inquiring into their cause, he will be met with an icy reserve. More
trouble may then be expected, and in me they will seek and find their
adviser. When Lotty said Mrs. Arbuthnot wanted her husband, she was
wrong. What Mrs. Arbuthnot wants is Briggs, and it looks uncommonly as
if she were not going to get him. Well, I'm their man."

"Where are your things, Mr. Briggs?" asked Mrs. Fisher, her voice
round with motherliness. "Oughtn't they to be fetched?" For the sun
was nearly in the sea now, and the sweet-smelling April dampness that
followed immediately on its disappearance was beginning to steal into
the garden.

Briggs started. "My things?" he repeated. "Oh yes--I must
fetch them. They're in Mezzago. I'll send Domenico. My fly is
waiting in the village. He can go back in it. I'll go and tell him."

He got up. To whom was he talking? To Mrs. Fisher, ostensibly,
yet his eyes were fixed on Scrap, who said nothing and looked at no
one.

Then, recollecting himself, he stammered, "I'm awfully sorry--I
keep on forgetting--I'll go down and fetch them myself."

"We can easily send Domenico," said Rose; and at her gentle voice
he turned his head.

Why, there was his friend, the sweet-named lady--but how had she
not in this short interval changed! Was it the failing light making
her so colourless, so vague-featured, so dim, so much like a ghost? A
nice good ghost, of course, and still with a pretty name, but only a
ghost.

He turned from her to Scrap again, and forgot Rose Arbuthnot's
existence. How was it possible for him to bother about anybody or
anything else in this first moment of being face to face with his dream
come true?

Briggs had not supposed or hoped that any one as beautiful as his
dream of beauty existed. He had never till now met even an
approximation. P