round the banqueting-hall, as they inspected the fine, old
pictures with which it was hung; she walked with them on the
terrace--little Jack still cradled in her arms; and wheresoever she
went, it seemed to Stretton that he had never in all his life seen any
woman half so fair.

He did not leave the house, after all, until late that night. He dined
with the Herons; he saw Mrs. Heron, and Kitty, and the boys; but he had
no eyes nor ears for anyone but Elizabeth. He did not know why she
charmed him; he knew only that it was a pleasure to him to see and hear
her slightest word and movement; and he put this down to the fact that
she had a sympathetic voice, and a face of undoubted beauty. But in very
truth, John Stretton--alias Brian Luttrell--returned to his inn that
night in the brilliant Italian moonlight, having (for the first time in
his life, be it observed) fallen desperately, passionately in love. And
the woman that he loved was the heiress of the Luttrell estates; the
last person in the world whom he would have dreamt of loving, had he but
known her name.

CHAPTER XVI.

"WITHOUT A REFERENCE."

Brian--or to avoid confusion, let us call him by the name that he had
adopted, Stretton--rose early, drank a cup of coffee, and was sitting in
the little verandah outside the inn, looking dreamily out towards a
distant view of the sea, and thinking (must the truth be told?) of
Elizabeth, when a visitor was announced. He looked round, and, to his
surprise, beheld Mr. Heron.

The artist was graver in manner and also a little more nervous than
usual. After the first greetings were over he sank into an embarrassed
silence, played with his watch-chain and his eye-glass, and, at last,
burst somewhat abruptly into the subject upon which he had really come
to speak.

"Mr. Stretton," he said, "I trust that you will excuse me if I am taking
a liberty; but the fact is, you mentioned to me yesterday that you
thought of taking pupils----"

"Yes," Stretton answered, simply. "I should be very glad if I could find
any."

"We think that we could find you some, Mr. Stretton."

The young man's pale face flushed; but he did not speak. He only looked
anxiously at the artist, who was pulling his pointed grey beard in a
meditative fashion, and seemed uncertain how to proceed with his
proposition.

"I have two boys running wild for want of a tutor," he said at last. "We
shall be here some weeks longer, and we don't know what to