esistible influence of the heavenly
atmosphere of San Salvatore being thus obviously justified, and Mr.
Wilkins, whom Rose knew as alarming and Scrap had pictured as icily
unkind, being so evidently a changed man, both Rose and Scrap began to
think there might after all be something in what Lotty insisted on, and
that San Salvatore did work purgingly on the character.

They were the more inclined to think so in that they too felt a
working going on inside themselves: they felt more cleared, both of
them, that second week--Scrap in her thoughts, many of which were now
quite nice thoughts, real amiable ones about her parents and relations,
with a glimmer in them of recognition of the extraordinary benefits she
had received at the hands of--what? Fate? Providence?--anyhow of
something, and of how, having received them, she had misused them by
failing to be happy; and Rose in her bosom, which though it still
yearned, yearned to some purpose, for she was reaching the conclusion
that merely inactively to yearn was no use at all, and that she must
either by some means stop her yearning or give it at least a chance--
remote, but still a chance--of being quieted by writing to Frederick
and asking him to come out.

If Mr. Wilkins could be changed, thought Rose, why not Frederick?
How wonderful it would be, how too wonderful, if the place worked on
him too and were able to make them even a little understand each other,
even a little be friends. Rose, so far had loosening and
disintegration gone on in her character, now was beginning to think her
obstinate strait-lacedness about his books and her austere absorption
in good works had been foolish and perhaps even wrong. He was her
husband, and she had frightened him away. She had frightened love
away, precious love, and that couldn't be good. Was not Lotty right
when she said the other day that nothing at all except love mattered?
Nothing certainly seemed much use unless it was built up on love. But
once frightened away, could it ever come back? Yes, it might in that
beauty, it might in the atmosphere of happiness Lotty and San Salvatore
seemed between them to spread round like some divine infection.

She had, however, to get him there first, and he certainly
couldn't be got there if she didn't write and tell him where she was.

She would write. She must write; for if she did there was at
least a chance of his coming, and if she didn't there was manifestly
none. And t