old woman," said Mrs. Fisher, "and I need a room to
myself. I cannot get about, because of my stick. As I cannot get
about I have to sit. Why should I not sit quietly and undisturbed, as
I told you in London I intended to? If people are to come in and out
all day long, chattering and leaving doors open, you will have broken
the agreement, which was that I was to be quiet."

"But we haven't the least wish--" began Mrs. Arbuthnot, who was
again cut short by Mrs. Wilkins.

"We're only too glad," said Mrs. Wilkins, "for you to have this
room if it makes you happy. We didn't know about it, that's all. We
wouldn't have come in if we had--not till you invited us, anyhow. I
expect," she finished looking down cheerfully at Mrs. Fisher, "you soon
will." And picking up her letter she took Mrs. Arbuthnot's hand and
drew her towards the door.

Mrs. Arbuthnot did not want to go. She, the mildest of women,
was filled with a curious and surely unchristian desire to stay and
fight. Not, of course, really, nor even with any definitely aggressive
words. No; she only wanted to reason with Mrs. Fisher, and to reason
patiently. But she did feel that something ought to be said, and that
she ought not to allow herself to be rated and turned out as if she
were a schoolgirl caught in ill behaviour by Authority.

Mrs. Wilkins, however, drew her firmly to and through the door,
and once again Rose wondered at Lotty, at her balance, her sweet and
equable temper--she who in England had been such a thing of gusts.
From the moment they got into Italy it was Lotty who seemed the elder.
She certainly was very happy; blissful, in fact. Did happiness so
completely protect one? Did it make one so untouchable, so wise? Rose
was happy herself, but not anything like so happy. Evidently not, for
not only did she want to fight Mrs. Fisher but she wanted something
else, something more than this lovely place, something to complete it;
she wanted Frederick. For the first time in her life she was
surrounded by perfect beauty, and her one thought was to show it to
him, to share it with him. She wanted Frederick. She yearned for
Frederick. Ah, if only, only Frederick . . .

"Poor old thing," said Mrs. Wilkins, shutting the door gently on
Mrs. Fisher and her triumph. "Fancy on a day like this."

"She's a very rude old thing," said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

"She'll get over that. I'm sorry we chose just her room to go
and sit in."

"It's much the