“And meanwhile,” said Mrs. Fisher, getting up, for the cold of the stone was now through, “I shouldn’t trouble my head if I were you with considerings and conclusions. Women’s heads weren’t made for thinking, I assure you. I should go to bed and get well.”
“I am well,” said Scrap.
“Then why did you send a message that you were ill?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then I’ve had all the trouble of coming out here for nothing.”
“But wouldn’t you prefer coming out and finding me well than coming out and finding me ill?” asked Scrap, smiling.
Even Mrs. Fisher was caught by the smile.
“Well, you’re a pretty creature,” she said forgivingly. “It’s a pity you weren’t born fifty years ago. My friends would have liked looking at you.”
“I’m very glad I wasn’t,” said Scrap. “I dislike being looked at.”
“Absurd,” said Mrs. Fisher, growing stern again. “That’s what you are made for, young women like you. For what else, pray? And I assure you that if my friends had looked at you, you would have been looked at by some very great people.”
“I dislike very great people,” said Scrap, frowning. There had been an incident quite recently—really potentates …
“What I dislike,” said Mrs. Fisher, now as cold as the stone she had got up from, “is the pose of the modern young woman. It seems to me pitiful, positively pitiful, in its silliness.”
And, her stick crunching the pebbles, she walked away.
“That’s all right,” Scrap said to herself, dropping back into her comfortable position with her head in the cushion and her feet on the parapet; if only people would go away she didn’t in the least mind why they went.
“Don’t you think darling Scrap is growing a little, just a little, peculiar?” her mother had asked her father a short time before that latest peculiarity of the flight to San Salvatore, uncomfortably struck by the very odd things Scrap said and the way she had taken to slinking out of reach whenever she could and avoiding everybody except—such a sign of age—quite young men, almost boys.
“Eh? What? Peculiar? Well, let her be peculiar if she likes. A woman with her looks can be any damned thing she pleases,” was the infatuated answer.
“I do let her,” said her mother meekly; and indeed if she did not, what difference would it make?
Mrs. Fisher was sorry she had bothered about Lady Caroline. She went along the hall towards her private sitting-room, and her stick as she went struck the stone floor with a vigour in harmony with her feelings. Sheer silliness, these poses. She had no patience with them. Unable to be or do anything of themselves, the young of the present generation tried to achieve a reputation for cleverness by decrying all that was obviously great and obviously good and by praising everything, however obviously bad, that was different. Apes, thought Mrs. Fisher, roused. Apes. Apes. And in her sitting-room she found more apes, or what seemed to her in her present mood more, for there was Mrs. Arbuthnot placidly drinking coffee, while at the writing-table, the writing-table she already looked upon as sacred, using her pen, her own pen brought for her hand alone from Prince of Wales Terrace, sat Mrs. Wilkins writing; at the table; in her room; with her pen.
“Isn’t this a delightful place?” said Mrs. Arbuthnot cordially. “We have just discovered it.”
“I’m writing to Mellersh,” said Mrs. Wilkins, turning her head and also cordially—as though, Mrs. Fisher thought, she cared a straw who she was writing to and anyhow knew who the person she called Mellersh was. “He’ll want to know,” said Mrs. Wilkins, optimism induced by her surroundings, “that I’ve got here safely.”
XI
The sweet smells that were everywhere in San Salvatore were alone enough to produce concord. They came into the sitting-room from the flowers on the battlements, and met the ones from the flowers inside the room, and almost, thought Mrs. Wilkins, could be seen greeting each other with a holy kiss. Who could be angry in the middle of such gentlenesses? Who could be acquisitive, selfish, in the old rasped London way, in the presence of this bounteous beauty?
Yet Mrs. Fisher seemed to be all three of these things.
There was so much beauty, so much more than enough for everyone, that it did appear to be a vain activity to try and make a corner in it.
Yet Mrs. Fisher was trying to make a corner in it, and had railed off a portion for her exclusive use.
Well, she would get over that presently; she would get over it inevitably, Mrs. Wilkins was sure, after a day or two in the extraordinary atmosphere of peace in that place.
Meanwhile she obviously hadn’t even begun to get over it. She stood looking at her and Rose with an expression that appeared to be one of anger. Anger. Fancy. Silly old nerve-racked London feelings, thought Mrs. Wilkins, whose eyes saw the room full of kisses, and everybody in it being kissed, Mrs. Fisher as copiously as she herself and Rose.
“You don’t like us being in here,” said Mrs. Wilkins, getting up and at once, after her manner, fixing on the truth. “Why?”
“I should have thought,” said Mrs. Fisher leaning on her stick, “you could have seen that it is my room.”
“You mean because of the photographs,” said Mrs. Wilkins.
Mrs. Arbuthnot, who was a little red and surprised, got up too.
“And the notepaper,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Notepaper with my London address on it. That pen—”
She pointed. It was still in Mrs. Wilkins’s hand.
“Is yours. I’m very sorry,” said Mrs. Wilkins, laying it on the table. And she added, smiling, that it had just been writing some very amiable things.
“But why,” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, who found herself unable to acquiesce in Mrs. Fisher’s arrangements without at least a gentle struggle, “ought we not to be here? It’s a sitting-room.”
“There is another one,” said Mrs. Fisher. “You and your friend cannot sit in two rooms at once, and
