A faint wonder came into Scrap’s eyes.  Have you a mother?  If ever anybody had a mother it was Scrap.  It had not occurred to her that there could be people who had never heard of her mother.  She was one of the major marchionesses—­there being, as no one knew better than Scrap, marchionesses and marchionesses—­and had held high positions at Court.  Her father, too, in his day had been most prominent.  His day was a little over, poor dear, because in the war he had made some important mistakes, and besides he was now grown old; still, there he was, an excessively well-known person.  How restful, how extraordinarily restful to have found some one who had never heard of any of her lot, or at least had not yet connected her with them.

She began to like Mrs. Fisher.  Perhaps the originals didn’t know anything about her either.  When she first wrote to them and signed her name, that great name of Dester which twisted in and out of English history like a bloody thread, for its bearers constantly killed, she had taken it for granted that they would know who she was; and at the interview of Shaftesbury Avenue she was sure they did know, because they hadn’t asked, as they otherwise would have, for references.

Scrap began to cheer up.  If nobody at San Salvatore had ever heard of her, if for a whole month she could shed herself, get right away from everything connected with herself, be allowed really to forget the clinging and the clogging and all the noise, why, perhaps she might make something of herself after all.  She might really think; really clear up her mind; really come to some conclusion.

“What I want to do here,” she said, leaning forward in her chair and clasping her hands round her knees and looking up at Mrs. Fisher, whose seat was higher than hers, almost with animation, so much pleased was she that Mrs. Fisher knew nothing about her, “is to come to a conclusion.  That’s all.  It isn’t much to want, is it?  Just that.”

She gazed at Mrs. Fisher, and thought that almost any conclusion would do; the great thing was to get hold of something, catch something tight, cease to drift.

Mrs. Fisher’s little eyes surveyed her.  “I should say,” she said, “that what a young woman like you wants is a husband and children.”

“Well, that’s one of the things I’m going to consider,” said Scrap amiably.  “But I don’t think it would be a conclusion.”

“And meanwhile,” said Mrs. Fisher, getting up, for the cold of the stone was now through, “I shouldn’t trouble my head if I were you with considerings and conclusions.  Women’s heads weren’t made for thinking, I assure you.  I should go to bed and get well.”

“I am well,” said Scrap.

“Then why did you send a message that you were ill?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then I’ve had all the trouble of coming out here for nothing.”

“But wouldn’t you prefer coming out and finding me well than coming out and finding me ill?” asked Scrap, smiling?