She stepped lightly into the car with a wave of the hand. Thorold went into his house shaking his head. "All very well, my young lady. But you have dropped into my life like a thunderbolt, and I believe you have come to stay. Boys are a serious charge, but a girl is a stupendous one!" Driving home, Gentian chattered away to Mrs. Wharnecliffe as gaily as a bird. "I like the little house, and the organ almost next door will make life a perfect joy. But I shall have to earn my living, and the question is, will this county produce enough customers—fares—for me? I imagine most people who have big houses like you, have their own cars, and the country people in their sweet little cottages have no money to hire cars—they walk along the roads carrying their baskets like those dear old dames I took up in my car the other day. The class I want are city men going to town, and sightseers—Americans, who want to see the English country. I have a thought! Thomas Cook, who runs cars in town himself, might help me. I will tell him I am only forty minutes from town, and will take parties to do the English country." "My dear child," interrupted Mrs. Wharnecliffe, "you are not running a char-à-banc! Your car only holds four besides the driver." "Five. No, I will only take private parties." She relapsed into silence, looking very pensive, for a few minutes, then her face cleared, and seemed flooded with sunshine. "I will just live day by day, and I am going to fill myself with joy and peace, getting into that anchorage of bliss, that darling nest of a vicarage. May I give it another name, do you think?" "No, I should not alter it, for the country round know it by that name. St. Anselm's Vicarage, Crowhurst, is a pretty address, I think." When they arrived home, Gentian found a packet of letters awaiting her. She went off to her room with them, and Mrs. Wharnecliffe did not see her till dinner time. She was rather silent through the meal. Afterwards, when Mr. Wharnecliffe had retired to his smoking-room for a perusal of the evening papers, she said to her hostess as they sat over the drawing-room fire: "I heard from Mr. Paget to-day." "Is he your English friend?" "Yes, the only Englishman I have ever liked. Many of them came out to Italy with arrogant voices, and found fault with everything, and others seemed to be always busy making or losing money at the Casino. Jim Paget loved Italy, he does not like his country. He is in London now." "But you are not really engaged to him, Gentian, are you?" She gazed into the fire dreamily without speaking for a few minutes; then her blue eyes looked at Mrs. Wharnecliffe very quietly and directly. "I am still thinking about it." "Tell me a little more about him, dear. Describe him to me."