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 nicest," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. "And it isn't
hers."
"Oh but there are lots of other places, and she's such a poor old
thing. Let her have the room.
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