d see her
home.

Well, whatever he was he couldn't possibly give her the trouble
an active young man like Mr. Briggs might give her. Mr. Briggs,
infatuated, would be reckless, she felt, would stick at nothing, would
lose his head publicly. She could imagine Mr. Briggs doing things with
rope-ladders, and singing all night under her window--being really
difficult and uncomfortable. Mr. Arundel hadn't the figure for any
kind of recklessness. He had lived too long and too well. She was
sure he couldn't sing, and wouldn't want to. He must be at least
forty. How many good dinners could not a man have eaten by the time he
was forty? And if during that time instead of taking exercise he had
sat writing books, he would quite naturally acquire the figure Mr.
Arundel had in fact acquired--the figure rather for conversation than
adventure.

Scrap, who had become melancholy at the sight of Briggs, became
philosophical at the sight of Arundel. Here he was. She couldn't send
him away till after dinner. He must be nourished.

This being so, she had better make the best of it, and do that
with a good grace which anyhow wasn't to be avoided. Besides, he would
be a temporary shelter from Mr. Briggs. She was at least acquainted
with Ferdinand Arundel, and could hear news from him of her mother and
her friends, and such talk would put up a defensive barrier at dinner
between herself and the approaches of the other one. And it was only
for one dinner, and he couldn't eat her.

She therefore prepared herself for friendliness. "I'm to be
fed," she said, ignoring his last remark, "at eight, and you must come
up and be fed too. Sit down and get cool and tell me how everybody
is."

"May I really dine with you? In these travelling things?" he
said, wiping his forehead before sitting down beside her.

She was too lovely to be true, he thought. Just to look at her
for an hour, just to hear her voice, was enough reward for his journey
and his fears.

"Of course. I suppose you've left your fly in the village, and
will be going on from Mezzago by the night train."

"Or stay in Mezzago in an hotel and go on to-morrow. But tell
me," he said, gazing at the adorable profile, "about yourself. London
has been extraordinarily dull and empty. Lady Droitwich said you were
with people here she didn't know. I hope they've been kind to you?
You look--well, as if your cure had done everything a cure should."

"They've been very