would be a torment to her belongings if they happened not to suit her.
And, my hat!--if you made her jealous!"

"Was she handsome?" asked Lodge.

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders.

"Must have been--probably--when she was ten years younger."

"And she possessed this bag?" mused Buntingford--"which she or some
one bought at Florence--for I've discovered the address of a shop in
it--Fratelli Cortis, Via Tornabuoni, Firenze. You didn't find that
out, Helena."

He passed the bag to her, pointing out a little printed silk label which
had been sewn into the neck of it. Then Vivian Lodge asked for it and
turned it over.

"Lovely work--and beautiful materials. Ah!--do you see what it is?"--he
held it up--"the Arms of Florence, embroidered in gold and silver
thread. H'm. I suppose, Buntingford, you get some Whitsuntide visitors
in the village?"

"Oh, yes, a few. There's a little pub with one or two decent rooms, and
several cottagers take lodgers. The lady, whoever she was, was scarcely a
person of delicacy."

"She was in that place for an object," said Geoffrey, interrupting him
with some decision. "Of that I feel certain. If she had just lost her
way, and was trespassing--she must have known, I think, that she was