conversation?  He had owed that to-day to the bare hazard of their ways lying together.  To-morrow, very likely, at the best, he might get a bow and a smile.  Very likely it might be days before he should again have anything approaching a real talk with her.  And what—­a new consideration, that struck a sudden terror to his soul—­what if her visit to Frau Brandt was to be a short one?  What if to-morrow even, she were to depart?  “Her very ease in talking with me, a stranger, may quite well have been due to the fact that she knew she would never see me again,” he argued. ...  So he was working himself into a fine state of despondency, and the world was rapidly being resolved into dust and ashes, when Heaven sent him a diversion.  Nay, indeed, Heaven sent him two diversions.

IV

There was a sound of wheels on gravel, of horses’ hoofs on stone, and Lady Blanchemain’s great high-swung barouche, rolling superbly forth from the avenue, drew up before the Castle, Lady Blanchemain herself, big and soft and sumptuous in silks and laces, under a much-befurbelowed, much-befringed, lavender-hued silk sunshade, occupying the seat of honour.  John hastened across the garden, hat in hand, to welcome her.

“Jump in,” she commanded, with a smile, and an imperious sweep of the arm.  “I have come to take you for a drive.”

The footman (proud man) held open the door, and John jumped in.  But just as the footman (with an air) had closed the door behind him, and before the coachman had touched up his horses, there came a rhythm of running footsteps, and the voice of Annunziata called, insistently, “Prospero!  Prospero!” Then, all out of breath, her pale cheeks pink, her curls in disarray, Annunziata arrived beside the carriage, and, no wise abashed by that magnificent equipage, nor by the magnificent old lady throning in it, (no wise abashed, but, from the roundness of her eyes, a good deal surprised and vastly curious), she explained, gasping, “A telegram,” and held up to John a straw-coloured envelope.

“Thank you,” said he, taking it, and waving a friendly hand.  “But you should not run so fast,” he admonished her, with concern.

Whereupon the carriage drove off, Annunziata standing and watching, always round-eyed, till it was out of sight.

“What an interesting-looking child!” said Lady Blanchemain.

“Yes,” said John.  “I should have liked to introduce her to you.”

“Who is she?” asked the lady.

“She’s the private detective I told you of.  She’s my affinity.  She’s the young limb o’ mischief for whom I ravaged your stores of marchpane.  She’s the niece of the parroco.”

“Hum!” said Lady Blanchemain.  “Why does she call you—­what was it?—­Prospero?”

“She’s an optimist.  She’s a bird of good omen,” answered John.  “She’s satisfied herself, by consulting an oracle, that Fortune has favours up her sleeve for me.  She encouragingly anticipates them by calling me Prospero before the fact.”