They had both—­even Mrs. Arbuthnot, lured for once away from perfect candour by the realization of the great saving of trouble and criticism an imperfect explanation would produce—­they had both thought it would be a good plan to give out, each to her own circle, their circles being luckily distinct, that each was going to stay with a friend who had a house in Italy.  It would be true as far as it went—­ Mrs. Wilkins asserted that it would be quite true, but Mrs. Arbuthnot thought it wouldn’t be quite—­and it was the only way, Mrs. Wilkins said, to keep Mellersh even approximately quiet.  To spend any of her money just on the mere getting to Italy would cause him indignation; what he would say if he knew she was renting part of a mediaeval castle on her own account Mrs. Wilkins preferred not to think.  It would take him days to say it all; and this although it was her very own money, and not a penny of it had ever been his.

“But I expect,” she said, “your husband is just the same.  I expect all husbands are alike in the long run.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot said nothing, because her reason for not wanting Frederick to know was the exactly opposite one—­Frederick would by only to pleased for her to go, he would not mind it in the very least; indeed, he would hail such a manifestation of self-indulgence and worldliness with an amusement that would hurt, and urge her to have a good time and not to hurry home with a crushing detachment.  Far better, she thought, to be missed by Mellersh than to be sped by Frederick.  To be missed, to be needed, from whatever motive, was, she though, better than the complete loneliness of not being missed or needed at all.

She therefore said nothing, and allowed Mrs. Wilkins to leap at her conclusions unchecked.  But they did, both of them, for a whole day feel that the only thing to be done was to renounce the mediaeval castle; and it was in arriving at this bitter decision that they really realized how acute had been their longing for it.

Then Mrs. Arbuthnot, whose mind was trained in the finding of ways out of difficulties, found a way out of the reference difficulty; and simultaneously Mrs. Wilkins had a vision revealing to her how to reduce the rent.

Mrs. Arbuthnot’s plan was simple, and completely successful.  She took the whole of the rent in person to the owner, drawing it out of her Savings Bank—­again she looked furtive and apologetic, as if the clerk must know the money was wanted for purposes of self-indulgence—­ and, going up with the six ten pound notes in her hand-bag to the address near the Brompton Oratory where the owner lived, presented them to him, waiving her right to pay only half.  And when he saw her, and her parted hair and soft dark eyes and sober apparel, and heard her grave voice, he told her not to bother about writing round for those references.

“It’ll be all right,” he said, scribbling a receipt for the rent.  “Do sit down, won’t you?  Nasty day, isn’t it?  You’ll find the old castle has lots of sunshine, whatever else it hasn’t got.  Husband going?”