“Still, the scenery is so very beautiful,” said Mother, “that one really does not feel the need of friends. I was only saying to my daughter yesterday I could live here for years without going outside the garden gate. It is all so beautiful.” “Is that so?” said Mr. Prodger, soberly. He added, “You have a very charming villa.” And he glanced round the salon. “Is all this antique furniture genuine, may I ask?” “I believe so,” said Mother. “I was certainly given to understand it was. Yes, we love our villa. But of course it is very large for two, that is to say three, ladies. My companion, Miss Anderson, is with us. But unfortunately she is a Roman Catholic, and so she is out most of the time.” Mr. Prodger bowed as one who agreed that Roman Catholics were very seldom in. “But I am so fond of space,” continued Mother, “and so is my daughter. We both love large rooms and plenty of them—don’t we, Milly?” This time Mr. Prodger looked at Milly quite cordially and remarked, “Yes, young people like plenty of room to run about.” He got up, put one hand behind his back, slapped the other upon it and went over to the balcony. “You’ve a view of the sea from here,” he observed. The ladies might well have noticed it; the whole Mediterranean swung before the windows. “We are so fond of the sea,” said Mother, getting up, too. Mr. Prodger looked towards Milly. “Do you see those yachts, Miss Fawcett?” Milly saw them. “Do you happen to know what they’re doing?” asked Mr. Prodger. What they were doing? What a funny question! Milly stared and bit her lip. “They’re racing!” said Mr. Prodger, and this time he did actually smile at her. “Oh, yes, of course,” stammered Milly. “Of course they are.” She knew that. “Well, they’re not always at it,” said Mr. Prodger, good-humouredly. And he turned to Mother and began to take a ceremonious farewell. “I wonder,” hesitated Mother, folding her little hands and eyeing him, “if you would care to lunch with us—if you would not be too dull with two ladies. We should be so very pleased.” Mr. Prodger became intensely serious again. He seemed to brace himself to meet the luncheon invitation. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Fawcett. I should be delighted.” “That will be very nice,” said Mother, warmly. “Let me see. Today is Monday—isn’t it, Milly? Would Wednesday suit you?” Mr. Prodger replied, “It would suit me excellently to lunch with you on Wednesday, Mrs. Fawcett. At _mee-dee_, I presume, as they call it here.” “Oh, no! We keep our English times. At one o’clock,” said Mother. And that being arranged, Mr. Prodger became more and more ceremonious and bowed himself out of the room. Mother rang for Marie to look after him, and a moment later the big glass hall-door shut. “Well!” said Mother. She was all smiles. Little smiles like butterflies, alighting on her lips and gone again. “That was an adventure, Milly, wasn’t it, dear? And I thought he was such a very charming man, didn’t you?”