ultaneously Mrs. Wilkins had a vision revealing to her how to
reduce the rent.

Mrs. Arbuthnot's plan was simple, and completely successful. She
took the whole of the rent in person to the owner, drawing it out of
her Savings Bank--again she looked furtive and apologetic, as if the
clerk must know the money was wanted for purposes of self-indulgence--
and, going up with the six ten pound notes in her hand-bag to the
address near the Brompton Oratory where the owner lived, presented them
to him, waiving her right to pay only half. And when he saw her, and
her parted hair and soft dark eyes and sober apparel, and heard her
grave voice, he told her not to bother about writing round for those
references.

"It'll be all right," he said, scribbling a receipt for the rent.
"Do sit down, won't you? Nasty day, isn't it? You'll find the old
castle has lots of sunshine, whatever else it hasn't got. Husband
going?"

Mrs. Arbuthnot, unused to anything but candour, looked troubled
at this question and began to murmur inarticulately, and the owner at
once concluded that she was a widow--a war one, of course, for other
widows were old--and that he had been a fool not to guess it.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, turning red right up to his fair hair.
"I didn't mean--h'm, h'm, h'm--"

He ran his eye over the receipt he had written. "Yes, I think
that's all right," he said, getting up and giving it to her. "Now," he
added, taking the six notes she held out and smiling, for Mrs.
Arbuthnot was agreeable to look at, "I'm richer, and you're happier.
I've got money, and you've got San Salvatore. I wonder got is best."

"I think you know," said Mrs. Arbuthnot with her sweet smile.

He laughed and opened the door for her. It was a pity the
interview was over. He would have liked to ask her to lunch with him.
She made him think of his mother, of his nurse, of all things kind and
comforting, besides having the attraction of not being his mother or
his nurse.

"I hope you'll like the old place," he said, holding her hand a
minute at the door. The very feel of her hand, even through its glove,
was reassuring; it was the sort of hand, he thought, that children
would like to hold in the dark. "In April, you know, it's simply a
mass of flowers. And then there's the sea. You must wear white.
You'll fit in very well. There are several portraits of you there."

"Portraits?"

"Madonnas, you know. There's one on the stairs really exac