Dear Rose—Thanks for letter. Glad you’re having a good time. Don’t hurry back. Say if you want any money. Everything going splendidly here.—Yours, Frederick. —no, it couldn’t be borne. “I don’t think I’ll come down to the village with you to-day,” she said, looking up at Lotty with eyes suddenly gone dim. “I think I want to think.” “All right,” said Lotty, at once starting off briskly down the path. “But don’t think too long,” she called back over her shoulder. “Write and invite him at once.” “Invite whom?” asked Rose, startled. “Your husband.” Chapter 12 At the evening meal, which was the first time the whole four sat round the dining-room table together, Scrap appeared. She appeared quite punctually, and in one of those wrappers or tea-gowns which are sometimes described as ravishing. This one really was ravishing. It certainly ravished Mrs. Wilkins, who could not take her eyes off the enchanting figure opposite. It was a shell-pink garment, and clung to the adorable Scrap as though it, too, loved her. “What a beautiful dress!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilkins eagerly. “What—this old rag?” said Scrap, glancing down at it as if to see which one she had got on. “I’ve had it a hundred years.” And she concentrated on her soup. “You must be very cold in it,” said Mrs. Fisher, thin-lipped; for it showed a great deal of Scrap—the whole of her arms, for instance, and even where it covered her up it was so thin that you still saw her. “Who—me?” said Scrap, looking up a moment. “Oh, no.” And she continued her soup. “You mustn’t catch a chill, you know,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, feeling that such loveliness must at all costs be preserved unharmed. “There’s a great difference here when the sun goes down.” “I’m quite warm,” said Scrap, industriously eating her soup. “You look as if you had nothing at all on underneath,” said Mrs. Fisher. “I haven’t. At least, hardly anything,” said Scrap, finishing her soup. “How very imprudent,” said Mrs. Fisher, “and how highly improper.” Whereupon Scrap stared at her. Mrs. Fisher had arrived at dinner feeling friendly towards Lady Caroline. She at least had not intruded into her room and sat at her table and written with her pen. She did, Mrs. Fisher had supposed, know how to behave. Now it appeared that she did not know, for was this behaving, to come dressed—no, undressed—like that to a meal? Such behaviour was not only exceedingly improper but also most inconsiderate, for the indelicate creature would certainly catch a chill, and then infect the entire party. Mrs. Fisher had a great objection to other people’s chills. They were always the fruit of folly; and then they were handed on to her, who had done nothing at all to deserve them. “Bird-brained,” thought Mrs. Fisher, sternly contemplating Lady Caroline. “Not an idea in her head except vanity.”