While Francesca went away into the garden with his card, her master stood examining the picture on the staircase of that Madonna by an early Italian painter, name unknown, picked up by him at Orvieto, who was so much like his tenant. It really was remarkable, the likeness. Of course his tenant that day in London had had her hat on, but he was pretty sure her hair grew just like that off her forehead. The expression of the eyes, grave and sweet, was exactly the same. He rejoiced to think that he would always have her portrait. He looked up at the sound of footsteps, and there she was, coming down the stairs just as he had imagined her in that place, dressed in white. She was astonished to see him so soon. She had supposed he would come about tea-time, and till then she had meant to sit somewhere out of doors where she could be by herself. He watched her coming down the stairs with the utmost eager interest. In a moment she would be level with her portrait. “It really is extraordinary,” said Briggs. “How do you do,” said Rose, intent only on a decent show of welcome. She did not welcome him. He was here, she felt, the telegram bitter in her heart, instead of Frederick, doing what she had longed Frederick would do, taking his place. “Just stand still a moment—” She obeyed automatically. “Yes—quite astonishing. Do you mind taking off your hat?” Rose, surprised, took it off obediently. “Yes—I thought so—I just wanted to make sure. And look—have you noticed—” He began to make odd swift passes with his hand over the face in the picture, measuring it, looking from it to her. Rose’s surprise became amusement, and she could not help smiling. “Have you come to compare me with my original?” she asked. “You do see how extraordinarily alike—” “I didn’t know I looked so solemn.” “You don’t. Not now. You did a minute ago, quite as solemn. Oh yes—how do you do,” he finished suddenly, noticing her outstretched hand. And he laughed and shook it, flushing—a trick of his—to the roots of his fair hair. Francesca came back. “The Signora Fisher,” she said, “will be pleased to see him.” “Who is the Signora Fisher?” he asked Rose. “One of the four who are sharing your house.” “Then there are four of you?” “Yes. My friend and I found we couldn’t afford it by ourselves.” “Oh, I say—” began Briggs in confusion, for he would best have liked Rose Arbuthnot—pretty name—not to have to afford anything, but to stay at San Salvatore as long as she liked as his guest. “Mrs. Fisher is having coffee in the top garden,” said Rose. “I’ll take you to her and introduce you.” “I don’t want to go. You’ve got your hat on, so you were going for a walk. Mayn’t I come too? I’d immensely like being shown round by you.” “But Mrs. Fisher is waiting for you.” “Won’t she keep?” “Yes,” said Rose, with the smile that had so much attracted him the first day. “I think she will keep quite well till tea.” “Do you speak Italian?” “No,” said Rose. “Why?”