She went first. Mrs. Arbuthnot, quite naturally now, followed. In England it had been the other way about—Lotty, timid, hesitating, except when she burst out so awkwardly, getting behind the calm and reasonable Rose whenever she could. “I’ve been thinking about Mellersh,” repeated Mrs. Wilkins over her shoulder, as Rose seemed not to have heard. “Have you?” said Rose, a faint distaste in her voice, for her experiences with Mellersh had not been of a kind to make her enjoy remembering him. She had deceived Mellersh; therefore she didn’t like him. She was unconscious that this was the reason of her dislike, and thought it was that there didn’t seem to be much, if any, of the grace of God about him. And yet how wrong to feel that, she rebuked herself, and how presumptuous. No doubt Lotty’s husband was far, far nearer to God than she herself was ever likely to be. Still, she didn’t like him. “I’ve been a mean dog,” said Mrs. Wilkins. “A what?” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, incredulous of her hearing. “All this coming away and leaving him in that dreary place while I rollick in heaven. He had planned to take me to Italy for Easter himself. Did I tell you?” “No,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot; and indeed she had discouraged talk about husbands. Whenever Lotty had begun to blurt out things she had swiftly changed the conversation. One husband led to another, in conversation as well as in life, she felt, and she could not, she would not, talk of Frederick. Beyond the bare fact that he was there, he had not been mentioned. Mellersh had had to be mentioned, because of his obstructiveness, but she had carefully kept him from overflowing outside the limits of necessity. “Well, he did,” said Mrs. Wilkins. “He had never done such a thing in his life before, and I was horrified. Fancy—just as I had planned to come to it myself.” She paused on the path and looked up at Rose. “Yes,” said Rose, trying to think of something else to talk about. “Now you see why I say I’ve been a mean dog. _He_ had planned a holiday in Italy with me, and _I_ had planned a holiday in Italy leaving him at home. I think,” she went on, her eyes fixed on Rose’s face, “Mellersh has every reason to be both angry and hurt.” Mrs. Arbuthnot was astonished. The extraordinary quickness with which, hour by hour, under her very eyes, Lotty became more selfless, disconcerted her. She was turning into something surprisingly like a saint. Here she was now being affectionate about Mellersh—Mellersh, who only that morning, while they hung their feet into the sea, had seemed a mere iridescence, Lotty had told her, a thing of gauze. That was only that morning; and by the time they had had lunch Lotty had developed so far as to have got him solid enough again to write to, and to write to at length. And now, a few minutes later, she was announcing that he had every reason to be angry with her and hurt, and that she herself had been—the language was unusual, but it did express real penitence—a mean dog.