“It has changed you,” said Miss Sheila, “there is a new light in your eyes; the light of dreams, I think--and now tell me about things, your friends, your work, and Signor Paggi--” and I did. Of course I had to mention Mr. Wake, and each time I did I faltered and grew conscious, although there was no reason for my doing this, since Miss Sheila had not known Terrence Wake, but a boy who was Terrence O’Gilvey. He came up quite naturally through my hopes for Miss Meek, and Mr. Wake’s plan for Mr. Hemmingway--he was going to let Mr. Hemmingway stay in his villa for the summer months, which would be a great treat for any one and heaven for a man who had lived for years in a dull pension--and through his befriending Sam, who was doing so well, and promising to do much more than well. “How kind your Mr. Wake must be,” said Miss Sheila. “He is,” I answered. “I’d like to meet him,” she said. “He’s dreadfully shy,” I responded, after that kind of a hard swallow that rasps and scratches as it goes down. “Heavens, and earth! No man ought to be afraid of an old woman like me!” Miss Sheila mused. “You aren’t old,” I put in, and almost sharply. “You have a prettier skin than I have, and as Leslie said, your silver hair simply adds a note of ‘chic.’” Miss Sheila laughed. “That sounds like Leslie,” she commented, and that led her to change the subject, for which I was grateful. “Odd, my coming over with Ben Forbes, wasn’t it?” “Yes, wasn’t it?” “Nice man, really. Has something of the Grand Commander manner, but--he’ll need it. Splendid arrangement I honestly think. . . . I want to meet your Sam.” “I want you to meet him. But he’s not mine,” I answered. “But I hope you’ll marry some time,” said Miss Sheila. “Go home and work a few years if you like, dear, but if you care for any one, and any one cares for you, don’t let any one, or anything stand between you; it doesn’t pay.” She paused a moment. “But,” she continued after this little interval, “if love doesn’t come, I think that a profession to which you really belong, and a work that would expand through your own effort, and so grow more interesting to you all the time--I think that this would be a good insurance against loneliness.” I looked at her quickly as she spoke of loneliness. She was staring off down below where there was a two wheeled, peasant cart lumbering up a winding hill road; but I felt that she didn’t see that, nor even hear the shrill, protesting squeaks that came from the unoiled hubs; and for that moment she came as close to looking tired and faded as I had ever seen her look. “Sometimes,” she stated, in the crisp way she occasionally spoke, “being an old maid is a _lonely_ business; especially when one is half ill, Jane, and would like a man to tiptoe into the room and knock over the waste basket, and get off a muffled ‘Damn,’ and poke the smelling salts at you, and then wheeze out a loudly whispered, ‘Feeling _any better_?’”