“I got here yesterday morning,” she said, looking up at them and smiling. She really was bewitching. She had everything, even a dimple. “It’s a great pity,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, smiling back, “because we were going to choose the nicest room for you.” “Oh, but I’ve done that,” said Lady Caroline. “At least, I think it’s the nicest. It looks two ways—I adore a room that looks two ways, don’t you? Over the sea to the west, and over this Judas tree to the north.” “And we had meant to make it pretty for you with flowers,” said Mrs. Wilkins. “Oh, Domenico did that. I told him to directly I got here. He’s the gardener. He’s wonderful.” “It’s a good thing, of course,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot a little hesitatingly, “to be independent, and to know exactly what one wants.” “Yes, it saves trouble,” agreed Lady Caroline. “But one shouldn’t be so independent,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “as to leave no opportunity for other people to exercise their benevolences on one.” Lady Caroline, who had been looking at Mrs. Arbuthnot, now looked at Mrs. Wilkins. That day at that queer club she had had merely a blurred impression of Mrs. Wilkins, for it was the other one who did all the talking, and her impression had been of somebody so shy, so awkward that it was best to take no notice of her. She had not even been able to say good-bye properly, doing it in an agony, turning red, turning damp. Therefore she now looked at her in some surprise; and she was still more surprised when Mrs. Wilkins added, gazing at her with the most obvious sincere admiration, speaking indeed with a conviction that refused to remain unuttered, “I didn’t realise you were _so_ pretty.” She stared at Mrs. Wilkins. She was not usually told this quite so immediately and roundly. Abundantly as she was used to it—impossible not to be after twenty-eight solid years—it surprised her to be told it with such bluntness, and by a woman. “It’s very kind of you to think so,” she said. “Why, you’re lovely,” said Mrs. Wilkins. “Quite, quite lovely.” “I hope,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot pleasantly, “you make the most of it.” Lady Caroline then stared at Mrs. Arbuthnot. “Oh yes,” she said. “I make the most of it. I’ve been doing that ever since I can remember.” “Because,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, smiling and raising a warning forefinger, “it won’t last.”