After she had gone Roger demanded of Mrs. Middleton whether she had imparted to Miss Sands her scheme for their common felicity. “Never mind what I said or did not say,” she replied. “She knows enough not to be taken unawares. And now tell me—” But Roger would tell her nothing. He made his escape, and as he walked home in the frosty starlight, his face wore a smile of the most shameless elation. He had gone up in the market. Nora might do worse! There stood that beautiful woman knocking at his door. A few evenings after this Roger called upon Hubert. Not immediately, but on what may be called the second line of conversation, Hubert asked him what news he had from Nora. Roger replied by reading her letter aloud. For some moments after he had finished Hubert was silent. “‘One grows more in a month in this wonderful Rome,’” he said at last, quoting, “‘than in a year at home.’” “Grow, grow, grow, and Heaven speed it!” said Roger. “She is growing, you may depend upon it.” “Of course she is; and yet,” said Roger, discriminatingly, “there is a kind of girlish freshness, a childish simplicity, in her style.” “Strongly marked,” said Hubert, laughing. “I have just got a letter from her you would take to be written by a child of ten.” “_You_ have a letter?” “It came an hour ago. Let me read it.” “Had you written to her?” “Not a word. But you will see.” And Hubert in his dressing-gown, standing before the fire, with the same silver-sounding accents Nora had admired, distilled her own gentle prose into Roger’s attentive ear.