a few hours straight from London. Your eyes glow with delight.
To-morrow we shall travel on to Genoa, you and I, more than friends,
and infinitely more than the common husband and wife! We have bidden
the world go round for _our_ amusement; henceforth it is our occupation
to observe and discuss and make merry.

'Is it all in vain? Rhoda, if you never love me, my life will be poor
to what it might have been; and you, you also, will lose something. In
imagination I kiss your hands and your lips.

EVERARD BARFOOT.'

There was an address at the head of this letter, but certainly Barfoot
expected no reply, and Rhoda had no thought of sending one. Every
night, however, she unfolded the sheet of thin foreign paper, and read,
more than once, what was written upon it. Read it with external calm,
with a brow of meditation, and afterwards sat for some time in absent
mood.

Would he write again? Her daily question was answered in rather more
than a fortnight. This time the letter came from Italy; it was lying on
the hall table when Rhoda returned from Great Portland Street, and Miss
Barfoot was the first to read the address. They exchanged no remark. On
breaking the envelope--she did so at once--Rhoda found a little bunch
of violets crushed but fragrant.

'These in return for your Cheddar pinks,' began the informal note
accompanying the flowers. 'I had them an hour ago from a pretty girl in
the streets of Parma. I didn't care to buy, and walked on, but the
pretty girl ran by me, and with gentle force fixed the flowers in my
button-hole, so that I had no choice but to stroke her velvety cheek
and give her a lira. How hungry I am for the sight of your face! Think
of me sometimes, dear friend.'

She laughed, and laid the letter and its violets away with the other.

'I must depend on you, it seems, for news of Everard,' said Miss
Barfoot after dinner.

'I can only tell you,' Rhoda answered lightly, 'that he has travelled
from the south of France to the north of Italy, with much observation
of female countenances.'

'He informs you of that?'

'Very naturally. It is his chief interest. One likes people to tell the
truth.'

* * * * * * * * * *

Barfoot was away until the end of April, but after that note from Parma
he did not write. One bright afternoon in May, a Saturday, he presented
himself at his cousin's house, and found two or three callers in the
drawing-room, ladies as usual; one of them was Miss Winifred Haven,
a