“Well, he did,” said Mrs. Wilkins. “He had never done such a thing in his life before, and I was horrified. Fancy—just as I had planned to come to it myself.”
She paused on the path and looked up at Rose.
“Yes,” said Rose, trying to think of something else to talk about.
“Now you see why I say I’ve been a mean dog. He had planned a holiday in Italy with me, and I had planned a holiday in Italy leaving him at home. I think,” she went on, her eyes fixed on Rose’s face, “Mellersh has every reason to be both angry and hurt.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot was astonished. The extraordinary quickness with which, hour by hour, under her very eyes, Lotty became more selfless, disconcerted her. She was turning into something surprisingly like a saint. Here she was now being affectionate about Mellersh—Mellersh, who only that morning, while they hung their feet into the sea, had seemed a mere iridescence, Lotty had told her, a thing of gauze. That was only that morning; and by the time they had had lunch Lotty had developed so far as to have got him solid enough again to write to, and to write to at length. And now, a few minutes later, she was announcing that he had every reason to be angry with her and hurt, and that she herself had been—the language was unusual, but it did express real penitence—a mean dog.
Rose stared at her astonished. If she went on like this, soon a nimbus might be expected round her head, was there already, if one didn’t know it was the sun through the tree-trunks catching her sandy hair.
A great desire to love and be friends, to love everybody, to be friends with everybody, seemed to be invading Lotty—a desire for sheer goodness. Rose’s own experience was that goodness, the state of being good, was only reached with difficulty and pain. It took a long time to get to it; in fact one never did get to it, or, if for a flashing instant one did, it was only for a flashing instant. Desperate perseverance was needed to struggle along its path, and all the way was dotted with doubts. Lotty simply flew along. She had certainly, thought Rose, not got rid of her impetuousness. It had merely taken another direction. She was now impetuously becoming a saint. Could one really attain goodness so violently? Wouldn’t there be an equally violent reaction?
“I shouldn’t,” said Rose with caution, looking down into Lotty’s bright eyes—the path was steep, so that Lotty was well below her—“I shouldn’t be sure of that too quickly.”
“But I am sure of it, and I’ve written and told him so.”
Rose stared. “Why, but only this morning—” she began.
“It’s all in this,” interrupted Lotty, tapping the envelope and looking pleased.
“What—everything?”
“You mean about the advertisement and my savings being spent? Oh no—not yet. But I’ll tell him all that when he comes.”
“When he comes?” repeated Rose.
“I’ve invited him to come and stay with us.”
Rose could only go on staring.
“It’s the least I could do. Besides—look at this.” Lotty waved her hand. “Disgusting not to share it. I was a mean dog to go off and leave him, but no dog I’ve ever heard of was ever as mean as I’d be if I didn’t try and persuade Mellersh to come out and enjoy this too. It’s barest decency that he should have some of the fun out of my nest-egg. After all, he has housed me and fed me for years. One shouldn’t be churlish.”
“But—do you think he’ll come?”
“Oh, I hope so,” said Lotty with the utmost earnestness; and added, “Poor lamb.”
At that Rose felt she would like to sit down. Mellersh a poor lamb? That same Mellersh who a few hours before was mere shimmer? There was a seat at the bend of the path, and Rose went to it and sat down. She wished to get her breath, gain time. If she had time she might perhaps be able to catch up the leaping Lotty, and perhaps be able to stop her before she committed herself to what she probably presently would be sorry for. Mellersh at San Salvatore? Mellersh, from whom Lotty had taken such pains so recently to escape?
“I see him here,” said Lotty, as if in answer to her thoughts.
Rose looked at her with real concern: for every time Lotty said in that convinced voice, “I see,” what she saw came true. Then it was to be supposed that Mr. Wilkins too would presently come true.
“I wish,” said Rose anxiously, “I understood you.”
“Don’t try,” said Lotty, smiling.
“But I must, because I love you.”
“Dear Rose,” said Lotty, swiftly bending down and kissing her.
“You’re so quick,” said Rose. “I can’t follow your developments. I can’t keep touch. It was what happened with Freder—”
She broke off and looked frightened.
“The whole idea of our coming here,” she went on again, as Lotty didn’t seem to have noticed, “was to get away, wasn’t it? Well, we’ve got away. And now, after only a single day of it, you want to write to the very people—”
She stopped.
“The very people we were getting away from,” finished Lotty. “It’s quite true. It seems idiotically illogical. But I’m so happy, I’m so well, I feel so fearfully wholesome. This place—why, it makes me feel flooded with love.”
And she stared down at Rose in a kind of radiant surprise.
Rose was silent a moment. Then she said, “And do you think it will have the same effect on Mr. Wilkins?”
Lotty laughed. “I don’t know,” she said. “But even if it doesn’t, there’s enough love about to
