Mrs. Wilkins, who must have been at least thirty, broke off and wriggled in her chair with the movement of an awkward and embarrassed schoolgirl. “It seems _so_ wonderful,” she went on in a kind of burst, “and—it is such a miserable day . . .” And then she sat looking at Mrs. Arbuthnot with the eyes of an imprisoned dog. “This poor thing,” thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, whose life was spent in helping and alleviating, “needs advice.” She accordingly prepared herself patiently to give it. “If you see me in church,” she said, kindly and attentively, “I suppose you live in Hampstead too?” “Oh yes,” said Mrs. Wilkins. And she repeated, her head on its long thin neck drooping a little as if the recollection of Hampstead bowed her, “Oh yes.” “Where?” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, who, when advice was needed, naturally first proceeded to collect the facts. But Mrs. Wilkins, laying her hand softly and caressingly on the part of _The Times_ where the advertisement was, as though the mere printed words of it were precious, only said, “Perhaps that’s why _this_ seems so wonderful.” “No—I think _that’s_ wonderful anyhow,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, forgetting facts and faintly sighing. “Then you _were_ reading it?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, her eyes going dreamy again. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” murmured Mrs. Wilkins. “Wonderful,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. Her face, which had lit up, faded into patience again. “Very wonderful,” she said. “But it’s no use wasting one’s time thinking of such things.” “Oh, but it _is_,” was Mrs. Wilkins’s quick, surprising reply; surprising because it was so much unlike the rest of her—the characterless coat and skirt, the crumpled hat, the undecided wisp of hair straggling out. “And just the considering of them is worth while in itself—such a change from Hampstead—and sometimes I believe—I really do believe—if one considers hard enough one gets things.” Mrs. Arbuthnot observed her patiently. In what category would she, supposing she had to, put her? “Perhaps,” she said, leaning forward a little, “you will tell me your name. If we are to be friends”—she smiled her grave smile—“as I hope we are, we had better begin at the beginning.” “Oh yes—how kind of you. I’m Mrs. Wilkins,” said Mrs. Wilkins. “I don’t expect,” she added, flushing, as Mrs. Arbuthnot said nothing, “that it conveys anything to you. Sometimes it—it doesn’t seem to convey anything to me either. But”—she looked round with a movement of seeking help—“I _am_ Mrs. Wilkins.”