Arbuthnot had learned not to hurry people into their
final categories, having on more than one occasion discovered with
dismay that she had made a mistake; and how difficult it had been to
get them out again, and how crushed she had been with the most terrible
remorse.
Yes. Nerves. Probably she had no regular work for others,
thought Mrs. Arbuthnot; no work that would take her outside herself.
Evidently she was rudderless--blown about by gusts, by impulses. Nerves
was almost certainly her category, or would be quite soon if no one
helped her. Poor little thing, thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, her own balance
returning hand in hand with her compassion, and unable, because of the
table, to see the length of Mrs. Wilkins's legs. All she saw was her
small, eager, shy face, and her thin shoulders, and the look of
childish longing in her eyes for something that she was sure was going
to make her happy. No; such things didn't make people happy, such
fleeting things. Mrs. Arbuthnot had learned in her long life with
Frederick--he was her husband, and she had married him at twenty and was
not thirty-three--where alone true joys are to be found. They are to be
found, she now knew, only in daily, in hourly, living for others; they
are to be found only--hadn't she over and over again taken her
disappointments and discouragements there, and come away comforted?--at
the feet of God.
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