“Nobody wants to see an old woman hobbling about everywhere,” she had said. “I shall be quite content to spend much of my time by myself in here or sitting out on these convenient battlements.”
And she had a very nice bedroom, too; it looked two ways, across the bay to the morning sun—she liked the morning sun—and on to the garden. There were only two of these bedrooms with cross-views in the house, she and Lady Caroline had discovered, and they were by far the airiest. They each had two beds in them, and she and Lady Caroline had had the extra beds taken out at once and put into two of the other rooms. In this way there was much more space and comfort. Lady Caroline, indeed, had turned hers into a bed-sitting-room, with the sofa out of the bigger drawing-room and the writing-table and the most comfortable chair, but she herself had not had to do that because she had her own sitting-room, equipped with what was necessary. Lady Caroline had thought at first of taking the bigger sitting-room entirely for her own, because the dining-room on the floor below could quite well be used between meals to sit in by the two others, and was a very pleasant room with nice chairs, but she had not liked the bigger sitting-room’s shape—it was a round room in the tower, with deep slit windows pierced through the massive walls, and a domed and ribbed ceiling arranged to look like an open umbrella, and it seemed a little dark. Undoubtedly Lady Caroline had cast covetous glances at the honey-coloured room, and if she, Mrs. Fisher, had been less firm would have installed herself in it. Which would have been absurd.
“I hope,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, smilingly making an attempt to convey to Mrs. Fisher that though she, Mrs. Fisher, might not be exactly a guest she certainly was not in the very least a hostess, “your room is comfortable.”
“Quite,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Will you have some more coffee?”
“No, thank you. Will you?”
“No, thank you. There were two beds in my bedroom, filling it up unnecessarily, and I had one taken out. It has made it much more convenient.”
“Oh that’s why I’ve got two beds in my room!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilkins, illuminated; the second bed in her little cell had seemed an unnatural and inappropriate object from the moment she saw it.
“I gave no directions,” said Mrs. Fisher, addressing Mrs. Arbuthnot, “I merely asked Francesca to remove it.”
“I have two in my room as well,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot.
“Your second one must be Lady Caroline’s. She had hers removed too,” said Mrs. Fisher. “It seems foolish to have more beds in a room than there are occupiers.”
“But we haven’t got any husbands here either,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “and I don’t see any use in extra beds in one’s room if one hasn’t got husbands to put in them. Can’t we have them taken away too?”
“Beds,” said Mrs. Fisher coldly, “cannot be removed from one room after another. They must remain somewhere.”
Mrs. Wilkins’s remarks seemed to Mrs. Fisher persistently unfortunate. Each time she opened her mouth she said something best left unsaid. Loose talk about husbands had never in Mrs. Fisher’s circle been encouraged. In the ’eighties, when she chiefly flourished, husbands were taken seriously, as the only real obstacles to sin. Beds too, if they had to be mentioned, were approached with caution; and a decent reserve prevented them and husbands ever being spoken of in the same breath.
She turned more markedly than ever to Mrs. Arbuthnot. “Do let me give you a little more coffee,” she said.
“No, thank you. But won’t you have some more?”
“No indeed. I never have more than two cups at breakfast. Would you like an orange?”
“No, thank you. Would you?”
“No, I don’t eat fruit at breakfast. It is an American fashion which I am too old now to adopt. Have you had all you want?”
“Quite. Have you?”
Mrs. Fisher paused before replying. Was this a habit, this trick of answering a simple question with the same question? If so it must be curbed, for no one could live for four weeks in any real comfort with somebody who had a habit.
She glanced at Mrs. Arbuthnot, and her parted hair and gentle brow reassured her. No; it was accident, not habit, that had produced those echoes. She could as soon imagine a dove having tiresome habits as Mrs. Arbuthnot. Considering her, she thought what a splendid wife she would have been for poor Carlyle. So much better than that horrid clever Jane. She would have soothed him.
“Then shall we go?” she suggested.
“Let me help you up,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, all consideration.
“Oh, thank you—I can manage perfectly. It’s only sometimes that my stick prevents me—”
Mrs. Fisher got up quite easily; Mrs. Arbuthnot had hovered over her for nothing.
“I’m going to have one of these gorgeous oranges,” said Mrs. Wilkins, staying where she was and reaching across to a black bowl piled with them. “Rose, how can you resist them. Look—have this one. Do have this beauty—” And she held out a big one.
“No, I’m going to see to my duties,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, moving towards the door. “You’ll forgive me for leaving you, won’t you,” she added politely to Mrs. Fisher.
Mrs. Fisher moved towards the door too; quite easily; almost quickly; her stick did not hinder her at all. She had no intention of being left with Mrs. Wilkins.
“What time would you like to have lunch?” Mrs. Arbuthnot asked her, trying to
