Mrs. Wilkins’s remarks seemed to Mrs. Fisher persistently unfortunate. Each time she opened her mouth she said something best left unsaid. Loose talk about husbands had never in Mrs. Fisher’s circle been encouraged. In the ’eighties, when she chiefly flourished, husbands were taken seriously, as the only real obstacles to sin. Beds too, if they had to be mentioned, were approached with caution; and a decent reserve prevented them and husbands ever being spoken of in the same breath. She turned more markedly than ever to Mrs. Arbuthnot. “Do let me give you a little more coffee,” she said. “No, thank you. But won’t you have some more?” “No indeed. I never have more than two cups at breakfast. Would you like an orange?” “No, thank you. Would you?” “No, I don’t eat fruit at breakfast. It is an American fashion which I am too old now to adopt. Have you had all you want?” “Quite. Have you?” Mrs. Fisher paused before replying. Was this a habit, this trick of answering a simple question with the same question? If so it must be curbed, for no one could live for four weeks in any real comfort with somebody who had a habit. She glanced at Mrs. Arbuthnot, and her parted hair and gentle brow reassured her. No; it was accident, not habit, that had produced those echoes. She could as soon imagine a dove having tiresome habits as Mrs. Arbuthnot. Considering her, she thought what a splendid wife she would have been for poor Carlyle. So much better than that horrid clever Jane. She would have soothed him. “Then shall we go?” she suggested. “Let me help you up,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, all consideration. “Oh, thank you—I can manage perfectly. It’s only sometimes that my stick prevents me—” Mrs. Fisher got up quite easily; Mrs. Arbuthnot had hovered over her for nothing. “_I’m_ going to have one of these gorgeous oranges,” said Mrs. Wilkins, staying where she was and reaching across to a black bowl piled with them. “Rose, how can you resist them. Look—have this one. Do have this beauty—” And she held out a big one. “No, I’m going to see to my duties,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, moving towards the door. “You’ll forgive me for leaving you, won’t you,” she added politely to Mrs. Fisher. Mrs. Fisher moved towards the door too; quite easily; almost quickly; her stick did not hinder her at all. She had no intention of being left with Mrs. Wilkins. “What time would you like to have lunch?” Mrs. Arbuthnot asked her, trying to keep her head as at least a non-guest, if not precisely a hostess, above water. “Lunch,” said Mrs. Fisher, “is at half-past twelve.” “You shall have it at half-past twelve then,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. “I’ll tell the cook. It will be a great struggle,” she continued, smiling, “but I’ve brought a little dictionary—” “The cook,” said Mrs. Fisher, “knows.” “Oh?” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. “Lady Caroline has already told her,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Oh?” said Mrs. Arbuthnot again.