The young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do. Lucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold: especially George, whom she so longed to be near. When she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.

The father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow, but by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something, and Lucy knew exactly why — their kiss.

She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains — curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by ‘Enery, her little boy, and Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South. And even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy?

Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr. Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvais quart d’heure.”

He expressed his regret.

“I must say it is so delightful to see a friendly face.” Miss Bartlett’s eyes met Mr. Beebe’s and before she thought to check herself, she released a delicate smile.

Nodding, Mr. Beebe returned the smile.

Charlotte felt her bosom swell. Again, she was struck with fanciful thoughts usually reserved exclusively for young girls.

“Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?” she asked, forcing herself back into her role of restraint.

“Emerson.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“We are friendly — as one is in pensions.”

“Then I will say no more.”

He pressed her very slightly, and she said more.

“I am, as it were,” she concluded, “the chaperon of my young cousin, Lucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate. I hope I acted for the best.”

“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting.”

“No harm, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.” His rather casual response to their becoming obliged to the wrong sort of person beckoned Charlotte to steal dangerous, impure glances at Mr. Beebe. She wondered what knowledge of the world he might harbor. But then she looked away when shame overtook her.