"Oh, you must ask papa about them, I don't understand business; but I want to tell you about Sir Rupert. The Society for Psychical Research sent down a Committee to inquire into the credibility of the ghost, and recorded four authentic apparitions in the spare bedroom; and on family evidence accepted at least three events in the Long Gallery. It was just after their report was issued that papa was invited to lease the house to some Americans for the summer. He always gets a good price for it now, simply on account of the ghost. I always think that rather horrid. I don't believe poor Sir Rupert would like it." "Perhaps he doesn't know," I suggested. "Of course, you don't believe in him," she said in rather an offended way. "My darling, of course I do; I have always believed in ghosts. Most of the pictures in the world, as I am always saying, were painted by _ghosts_." "Oh, no, Aleister, you're laughing at me; but when you see Sir Rupert, as you will, in the spare bedroom, you will believe too." At the end of January, I became Flora's accepted fiance. In February, I moved with the Brodies to Florence, where I was able to introduce them to all my kind and hospitable friends,--the Berensons, Mr. Charles Loeser, Mr. Herbert Horne, and Mr. Hobart Cust. Flora was in every way a great success, and commenced a little book on Nera di Bicci for Bell's Great Painters Series. She was invited to contribute to the _Burlington Magazine_. It was quite a primavera. Our marriage was arranged for the following February. The Brodies were to return to Hootawa after it was vacated by the American summer tenants. I was to join them for Christmas on my return from America, where I was compelled to go in order to settle my affairs. My father, Lorenzo Q. Sweat, of Chicago, evinced great pleasure at my approaching union with an old Scotch family; he promised me a handsome allowance considering his recent losses in the meat packing swindle--I mean trade. I was able to dissuade him from coming to Europe for the ceremony. After delivering two successful lectures on Pietro Cavallini in the early fall at mothers' soirees, I sailed for Liverpool. There was deep snow on the ground when I arrived at Hootawa in the early afternoon of a cold December day. The Colonel met me at the station in the uniform of the 69th, attended by two gillies holding torches. "There will just be enough light to glance at the pictures before tea," he said gaily, and in three-quarters of an hour I was embracing Flora and saluting her mother, who were in the hall to greet me. For the most part Hootawa was a typical old Scotch castle, with extinguisher turrets; an incongruous Jacobean addition rather enhancing its picturesque ensemble. "You'll see better pictures here than anything in Rome," remarked the Colonel; but Flora giggled rather nervously.