She was certainly secretive, for
though he had been skilful and sympathetic for a whole week, she had as
yet given him no inkling of what was so evidently worrying her.
"Poor old thing," said Lotty, on his asking her if she perhaps
could throw light on Mrs. Fisher's troubles. "She hasn't got love."
"Love?" Mr. Wilkins could only echo, genuinely scandalized. "But
surely, my dear--at her age--"
"Any love," said Lotty.
That very morning he had asked his wife, for he now sought and
respected her opinion, if she could tell him what was the matter with
Mrs. Arbuthnot, for she too, though he had done his best to thaw her
into confidence, had remained persistently retiring.
"She wants her husband," said Lotty.
"Ah," said Mr. Wilkins, a new light shed on Mrs. Arbuthnot's shy
and modest melancholy. And he added, "Very proper."
And Lotty said, smiling at him, "One does."
And Mr. Wilkins said, smiling at her, "Does one?"
And Lotty said, smiling at him, "Of course."
And Mr. Wilkins, much pleased with her, though it was still quite
early in the day, a time when caresses are sluggish, pinched her ear.
Just before half-past twelve Rose came slowly up through the
pergola and between the camellias ranged on either side of the old
stone steps. The rivulets of periwinkles that flowed down them when
first she arrived were gone, and now there were these bushes,
incredibly rosetted.
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