Just before half-past twelve Rose came slowly up through the pergola and between the camellias ranged on either side of the old stone steps. The rivulets of periwinkles that flowed down them when first she arrived were gone, and now there were these bushes, incredibly rosetted. Pink, white, red, striped—she fingered and smelt them one after the other, so as not to get to her disappointment too quickly. As long as she hadn’t seen for herself, seen the table in the hall quite empty except for its bowl of flowers, she still could hope, she still could have the joy of imagining the telegram lying on it waiting for her. But there is no smell in a camellia, as Mr. Wilkins, who was standing in the doorway on the look-out for her and knew what was necessary in horticulture, reminded her. She started at his voice and looked up. “A telegram has come for you,” said Mr. Wilkins. She stared at him, her mouth open. “I searched for you everywhere, but failed—” Of course. She knew it. She had been sure of it all the time. Bright and burning, Youth in that instant flashed down again on Rose. She flew up the steps, red as the camellia she had just been fingering, and was in the hall and tearing open the telegram before Mr. Wilkins had finished his sentence. Why, but if things could happen like this—why, but there was no end to—why, she and Frederick—they were going to be—again—at last— “No bad news, I trust?” said Mr. Wilkins who had followed her, for when she had read the telegram she stood staring at it and her face went slowly white. Curious to watch how her face went slowly white. She turned and looked at Mr. Wilkins as if trying to remember him. “Oh no. On the contrary—” She managed to smile. “I’m going to have a visitor,” she said, holding out the telegram; and when he had taken it she walked away towards the dining-room, murmuring something about lunch being ready. Mr. Wilkins read the telegram. It had been sent that morning from Mezzago, and was: Am passing through on way to Rome. May I pay my respects this afternoon? Thomas Briggs. Why should such a telegram make the interesting lady turn pale? For her pallor on reading it had been so striking as to convince Mr. Wilkins she was receiving a blow. “Who is Thomas Briggs?” he asked, following her into the dining-room. She looked at him vaguely. “Who is—?” she repeated, getting her thoughts together again. “Thomas Briggs.” “Oh. Yes. He is the owner. This is his house. He is very nice. He is coming this afternoon.”