He did not leave the house, after all, until late that night. He dined with the Herons; he saw Mrs. Heron, and Kitty, and the boys; but he had no eyes nor ears for anyone but Elizabeth. He did not know why she charmed him; he knew only that it was a pleasure to him to see and hear her slightest word and movement; and he put this down to the fact that she had a sympathetic voice, and a face of undoubted beauty. But in very truth, John Stretton--alias Brian Luttrell--returned to his inn that night in the brilliant Italian moonlight, having (for the first time in his life, be it observed) fallen desperately, passionately in love. And the woman that he loved was the heiress of the Luttrell estates; the last person in the world whom he would have dreamt of loving, had he but known her name. CHAPTER XVI. "WITHOUT A REFERENCE." Brian--or to avoid confusion, let us call him by the name that he had adopted, Stretton--rose early, drank a cup of coffee, and was sitting in the little verandah outside the inn, looking dreamily out towards a distant view of the sea, and thinking (must the truth be told?) of Elizabeth, when a visitor was announced. He looked round, and, to his surprise, beheld Mr. Heron. The artist was graver in manner and also a little more nervous than usual. After the first greetings were over he sank into an embarrassed silence, played with his watch-chain and his eye-glass, and, at last, burst somewhat abruptly into the subject upon which he had really come to speak. "Mr. Stretton," he said, "I trust that you will excuse me if I am taking a liberty; but the fact is, you mentioned to me yesterday that you thought of taking pupils----" "Yes," Stretton answered, simply. "I should be very glad if I could find any." "We think that we could find you some, Mr. Stretton." The young man's pale face flushed; but he did not speak. He only looked anxiously at the artist, who was pulling his pointed grey beard in a meditative fashion, and seemed uncertain how to proceed with his proposition. "I have two boys running wild for want of a tutor," he said at last. "We shall be here some weeks longer, and we don't know what to do with them. My wife says they are too much for her. Elizabeth has devoted herself to poor little Jack (something sadly wrong with his spine, I'm afraid, Mr. Stretton). Kitty--well, Kitty is only a child herself. The point is--would it be a waste of your time, Mr. Stretton, to ask you to spend a few weeks in this neighbourhood, and give these boys two or three hours a day? We thought that you might find it worth your while." Stretton was standing, with his shoulder against one of the vine-clad posts that supported the verandah. Mr. Heron wondered at his discomposure; for his colour changed from red to white and from white to red as sensitively as a girl's, and it was with evident difficulty that he brought himself to speak. But when he spoke the mystery seemed, in Mr. Heron's eyes, to be partly solved.