“I’m an old woman,” said Mrs. Fisher, “and I need a room to myself. I cannot get about, because of my stick. As I cannot get about I have to sit. Why should I not sit quietly and undisturbed, as I told you in London I intended to? If people are to come in and out all day long, chattering and leaving doors open, you will have broken the agreement, which was that I was to be quiet.” “But we haven’t the least wish—” began Mrs. Arbuthnot, who was again cut short by Mrs. Wilkins. “We’re only too glad,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “for you to have this room if it makes you happy. We didn’t know about it, that’s all. We wouldn’t have come in if we had—not till you invited us, anyhow. I expect,” she finished looking down cheerfully at Mrs. Fisher, “you soon will.” And picking up her letter she took Mrs. Arbuthnot’s hand and drew her towards the door. Mrs. Arbuthnot did not want to go. She, the mildest of women, was filled with a curious and surely unchristian desire to stay and fight. Not, of course, really, nor even with any definitely aggressive words. No; she only wanted to reason with Mrs. Fisher, and to reason patiently. But she did feel that something ought to be said, and that she ought not to allow herself to be rated and turned out as if she were a schoolgirl caught in ill behaviour by Authority. Mrs. Wilkins, however, drew her firmly to and through the door, and once again Rose wondered at Lotty, at her balance, her sweet and equable temper—she who in England had been such a thing of gusts. From the moment they got into Italy it was Lotty who seemed the elder. She certainly was very happy; blissful, in fact. Did happiness so completely protect one? Did it make one so untouchable, so wise? Rose was happy herself, but not anything like _so_ happy. Evidently not, for not only did she want to fight Mrs. Fisher but she wanted something else, something more than this lovely place, something to complete it; she wanted Frederick. For the first time in her life she was surrounded by perfect beauty, and her one thought was to show it to him, to share it with him. She wanted Frederick. She yearned for Frederick. Ah, if only, only Frederick . . . “Poor old thing,” said Mrs. Wilkins, shutting the door gently on Mrs. Fisher and her triumph. “Fancy on a day like this.” “She’s a very rude old thing,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. “She’ll get over that. I’m sorry we chose just her room to go and sit in.” “It’s much the nicest,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. “And it isn’t hers.” “Oh but there are lots of other places, and she’s such a poor old thing. Let her have the room. Whatever does it matter?” And Mrs. Wilkins said she was going down to the village to find out where the post-office was and post her letter to Mellersh, and would Rose go too. “I’ve been thinking about Mellersh,” said Mrs. Wilkins as they walked, one behind the other, down the narrow zigzag path up which they had climbed in the rain the night before.