Scrap began to cheer up. If nobody at San Salvatore had ever heard of her, if for a whole month she could shed herself, get right away from everything connected with herself, be allowed really to forget the clinging and the clogging and all the noise, why, perhaps she might make something of herself after all. She might really think; really clear up her mind; really come to some conclusion. “What I want to do here,” she said, leaning forward in her chair and clasping her hands round her knees and looking up at Mrs. Fisher, whose seat was higher than hers, almost with animation, so much pleased was she that Mrs. Fisher knew nothing about her, “is to come to a conclusion. That’s all. It isn’t much to want, is it? Just that.” She gazed at Mrs. Fisher, and thought that almost any conclusion would do; the great thing was to get hold of something, catch something tight, cease to drift. Mrs. Fisher’s little eyes surveyed her. “I should say,” she said, “that what a young woman like you wants is a husband and children.” “Well, that’s one of the things I’m going to consider,” said Scrap amiably. “But I don’t think it would be a conclusion.” “And meanwhile,” said Mrs. Fisher, getting up, for the cold of the stone was now through, “I shouldn’t trouble my head if I were you with considerings and conclusions. Women’s heads weren’t made for thinking, I assure you. I should go to bed and get well.” “I am well,” said Scrap. “Then why did you send a message that you were ill?” “I didn’t.” “Then I’ve had all the trouble of coming out here for nothing.” “But wouldn’t you prefer coming out and finding me well than coming out and finding me ill?” asked Scrap, smiling. Even Mrs. Fisher was caught by the smile. “Well, you’re a pretty creature,” she said forgivingly. “It’s a pity you weren’t born fifty years ago. My friends would have liked looking at you.” “I’m very glad I wasn’t,” said Scrap. “I dislike being looked at.” “Absurd,” said Mrs. Fisher, growing stern again. “That’s what you are made for, young women like you. For what else, pray? And I assure you that if my friends had looked at you, you would have been looked at by some very great people.” “I dislike very great people,” said Scrap, frowning. There had been an incident quite recently—really potentates. . . “What _I_ dislike,” said Mrs. Fisher, now as cold as the stone she had got up from, “is the pose of the modern young woman. It seems to me pitiful, positively pitiful, in its silliness.” And, her stick crunching the pebbles, she walked away. “That’s all right,” Scrap said to herself, dropping back into her comfortable position with her head in the cushion and her feet on the parapet; if only people would go away she didn’t in the least mind why they went.