, about trotting
backwards and forwards. But it did matter that she could not read a
sentence of any of her great dead friends' writings; no, not even of
Browning's, who had been so much in Italy, nor of Ruskin's, whose
Stones of Venice she had brought with her to re-read so nearly on the
very spot; nor even a sentence of a really interesting book like the
one she had found in her sitting-room about the home life of the German
Emperor, poor man--written in the nineties, when he had not yet begun
to be more sinned against than sinning, which was, she was firmly
convinced, what was the matter with him now, and full of exciting
things about his birth and his right arm and accoucheurs--without
having to put it down and go and stare at the sea.

Reading was very important; the proper exercise and development
of one's mind was a paramount duty. How could one read if one were
constantly trotting in and out? Curious, this restlessness. Was she
going to be ill? No, she felt well; indeed, unusually well, and she
went in and out quite quickly--trotted, in fact--and without her stick.
Very odd that she shouldn't be able to sit still, she thought, frowning
across the tops of some purple hyacinths at the Gulf of Spezia
glittering beyond a headland; very odd that she, who walked so slowly,
with such dependence on her stick, should suddenly trot.

It would be interesting to talk to some one about it, she felt.
Not to Kate--to a stranger. Kate would only look at her and suggest a
cup of tea. Kate always suggested cups of tea. Besides, Kate had a
flat face. That Mrs. Wilkins, now--annoying as she was, loose-tongued
as she was, impertinent, objectionable, would probably understand, and
perhaps know what was making her be like this. But she could say
nothing to Mrs. Wilkins. She was the last person to whom one would
admit sensations. Dignity alone forbade it. Confide in Mrs. Wilkins?
Never.

And Mrs. Arbuthnot, while she wistfully mothered the obstructive
Scrap at tea, felt too that she had had a curious day. Like Mrs.
Fisher's, it had been active, but, unlike Mrs. Fisher's, only active in
mind. Her body had been quite still; her mind had not been still at
all, it had been excessively active. For years she had taken care to
have no time to think. Her scheduled life in the parish had prevented
memories and desires from intruding on her. That day they had crowded.
She went back to tea feeling dejected, and that she shoul