"Lady Caroline has a headache," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, re-entering
the dining-room and sitting down in her place next to Mrs. Fisher. "I
can't persuade her to have even a little tea, or some black coffee. Do
you know what aspirin is in Italian?"
"The proper remedy for headaches," said Mrs. Fisher firmly, "is
castor oil."
"But she hasn't got a headache," said Mrs. Wilkins.
"Carlyle," said Mrs. Fisher, who had finished her omelette and
had leisure, while she waited for the next course, to talk, "suffered
at one period terribly from headaches, and he constantly took castor
oil as a remedy. He took it, I should say, almost to excess, and
called it, I remember, in his interesting way the oil of sorrow. My
father said it coloured for a time his whole attitude to life, his
whole philosophy. But that was because he took too much. What Lady
Caroline wants is one dose, and one only. It is a mistake to keep on
taking castor oil."
"Do you know the Italian for it?" asked Mrs. Arbuthnot.
"Ah, that I'm afraid I don't. However, she would know. You can
ask her."
"But she hasn't got a headache," repeated Mrs. Wilkins, who was
struggling with the maccaroni. "She only wants to be let alone."
They both looked at her. The word shovel crossed Mrs. Fisher's
mind in connection with Mrs.
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