“I hope,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, smilingly making an attempt to convey to Mrs. Fisher that though she, Mrs. Fisher, might not be exactly a guest she certainly was not in the very least a hostess, “your room is comfortable.”

“Quite,” said Mrs. Fisher.  “Will you have some more coffee?”

“No, thank you.  Will you?”

“No, thank you.  There were two beds in my bedroom, filling it up unnecessarily, and I had one taken out.  It has made it much more convenient.”

“Oh that’s why I’ve got two beds in my room!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilkins, illuminated; the second bed in her little cell had seemed an unnatural and inappropriate object from the moment she saw it.

“I gave no directions,” said Mrs. Fisher, addressing Mrs. Arbuthnot, “I merely asked Francesca to remove it.”

“I have two in my room as well,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

“Your second one must be Lady Caroline’s.  She had hers removed too,” said Mrs. Fisher.  “It seems foolish to have more beds in a room than there are occupiers.”

“But we haven’t got husbands here either,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “and I don’t see any use in extra beds in one’s room if one hasn’t got husbands to put in them.  Can’t we have them taken away too?”

“Beds,” said Mrs. Fisher coldly, “cannot be removed from one room after another.  They must remain somewhere.”

Mrs. Wilkins’s remarks seemed to Mrs. Fisher persistently unfortunate.  Each time she opened her mouth she said something best left unsaid.  Loose talk about husbands had never in Mrs. Fisher’s circle been encouraged.  In the ’eighties, when she chiefly flourished, husbands were taken seriously, as the only real obstacles to sin.  Beds too, if they had to be mentioned, were approached with caution; and a decent reserve prevented them and husbands ever being spoken of in the same breath.

She turned more markedly than ever to Mrs. Arbuthnot.  “Do let me give you a little more coffee,” she said.

“No, thank you.  But won’t you have some more?”

“No indeed.  I never have more than two cups at breakfast.  Would you like an orange?”

“No thank you.  Would you?”

“No, I don’t eat fruit at breakfast.  It is an American fashion which I am too old now to adopt.  Have you had all you want?”

“Quite.  Have you?”

Mrs. Fisher paused before replying was this a habit, this trick of answering a simple question with the same question?  If so it must be curbed, for no one could live for four weeks in any real comfort with somebody who had a habit.

She glanced at Mrs. Arbuthnot, and her parted hair and gentle brow reassured her.  No; it was accident, not habit, that had produced those echoes.  She could as soon imagine a dove having tiresome habits as Mrs. Arbuthnot.  Considering her, she thought what a splendid wife she would have been for poor Carlyle.  So much better than that horrid clever Jane.  She would have soothed him.