Meanwhile she obviously hadn't even begun to get over it. She
stood looking at her and Rose with an expression that appeared to be
one of anger. Anger. Fancy. Silly old nerve-racked London feelings,
thought Mrs. Wilkins, whose eyes saw the room full of kisses, and
everybody in it being kissed, Mrs. Fisher as copiously as she herself
and Rose.
"You don't like us being in here," said Mrs. Wilkins, getting up
and at once, after her manner, fixing on the truth. "Why?"
"I should have thought," said Mrs. Fisher leaning on her stick,
"you could have seen that it is my room."
"You mean because of the photographs," said Mrs. Wilkins.
Mrs. Arbuthnot, who was a little red and surprised, got up too.
"And the notepaper," said Mrs. Fisher. "Notepaper with my London
address on it. That pen--"
She pointed. It was still in Mrs. Wilkins's hand.
"Is yours. I'm very sorry," said Mrs. Wilkins, laying it on the
table. And she added smiling, that it had just been writing some very
amiable things.
"But why," asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, who found herself unable to
acquiesce in Mrs. Fisher's arrangements without at least a gentle
struggle, "ought we not to be here? It's a sitting-room."
"There is another one," said Mrs. Fisher. "You and your friend
cannot sit in two rooms at once, and if I have no wish to disturb you
in yours I am unable to see why you should wish to disturb me in mine.
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