Lotty, coming back half an hour later from her picnic, and following the sound of voices into the top garden in the hope of still finding tea, saw at once what had happened, for Mrs. Fisher at that very moment was laughing. “She’s burst her cocoon,” thought Lotty; and swift as she was in all her movements, and impulsive, and also without any sense of propriety to worry and delay her, she bent over the back of Mrs. Fisher’s chair and kissed her. “Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Fisher, starting violently, for such a thing had not happened to her since Mr. Fisher’s earlier days, and then only gingerly. This kiss was a real kiss, and rested on Mrs. Fisher’s cheek a moment with a strange, soft sweetness. When she saw whose it was, a deep flush spread over her face. Mrs. Wilkins kissing her and the kiss feeling so affectionate. . . Even if she had wanted to she could not in the presence of the appreciative Mr. Briggs resume her cast-off severity and begin rebuking again; but she did not want to. Was it possible Mrs. Wilkins liked her—had liked her all this time, while she had been so much disliking her herself? A queer little trickle of warmth filtered through the frozen defences of Mrs. Fisher’s heart. Somebody young kissing her—somebody young _wanting_ to kiss her. . . Very much flushed, she watched the strange creature, apparently quite unconscious she had done anything extraordinary, shaking hands with Mr. Briggs, on her husband’s introducing him, and immediately embarking on the friendliest conversation with him, exactly as if she had known him all her life. What a strange creature; what a very strange creature. It was natural, she being so strange, that one should have, perhaps, misjudged her. . . “I’m sure you want some tea,” said Briggs with eager hospitality to Lotty. He thought her delightful,—freckles, picnic-untidiness and all. Just such a sister would he— “This is cold,” he said, feeling the teapot. “I’ll tell Francesca to make you some fresh—” He broke off and blushed. “Aren’t I forgetting myself,” he said, laughing and looking round at them. “Very natural, very natural,” Mr. Wilkins reassured him. “I’ll go and tell Francesca,” said Rose, getting up. “No, no,” said Briggs. “Don’t go away.” And he put his hands to his mouth and shouted. “Francesca!” shouted Briggs. She came running. No summons in their experience had been answered by her with such celerity. “‘Her Master’s voice,’” remarked Mr. Wilkins; aptly, he considered. “Make fresh tea,” ordered Briggs in Italian. “Quick—quick—” And then remembering himself he blushed again, and begged everybody’s pardon. “Very natural, very natural,” Mr. Wilkins reassured him. Briggs then explained to Lotty what he had explained twice already, once to Rose and once to the other two, that he was on his way to Rome and thought he would get out at Mezzago and just look in to see if they were comfortable and continue his journey the next day, staying the night in an hotel at Mezzago.