Mrs. Fisher was moved almost beyond control by this speech.  To have a ramshackle young woman from Hampstead patting her on the back as it were, in breezy certitude that quite soon she would improve, stirred her more deeply than anything had stirred her since her first discovery that Mr. Fisher was not what he seemed.  Mrs. Wilkins must certainly be curbed.  But how?  There was a curious imperviousness about her.  At that moment, for instance, she was smiling as pleasantly and with as unclouded a face as if she were saying nothing in the least impertinent.  Would she know she was being curbed?  If she didn’t know, if she were too tough to feel it, then what?  Nothing, except avoidance; except, precisely, one’s own private sitting-room.

“I’m an old woman,” said Mrs. Fisher, “and I need a room to myself.  I cannot get about, because of my stick.  As I cannot get about I have to sit.  Why should I not sit quietly and undisturbed, as I told you in London I intended to?  If people are to come in and out all day long, chattering and leaving doors open, you will have broken the agreement, which was that I was to be quiet.”

“But we haven’t the least wish—­” began Mrs. Arbuthnot, who was again cut short by Mrs. Wilkins.

“We’re only too glad,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “for you to have this room if it makes you happy.  We didn’t know about it, that’s all.  We wouldn’t have come in if we had—­not till you invited us, anyhow.  I expect,” she finished looking down cheerfully at Mrs. Fisher, “you soon will.”  And picking up her letter she took Mrs. Arbuthnot’s hand and drew her towards the door.

Mrs. Arbuthnot did not want to go.  She, the mildest of women, was filled with a curious and surely unchristian desire to stay and fight.  Not, of course, really, nor even with any definitely aggressive words.  No; she only wanted to reason with Mrs. Fisher, and to reason patiently.  But she did feel that something ought to be said, and that she ought not to allow herself to be rated and turned out as if she were a schoolgirl caught in ill behaviour by Authority.

Mrs. Wilkins, however, drew her firmly to and through the door, and once again Rose wondered at Lotty, at her balance, her sweet and equable temper—­she who in England had been such a thing of gusts.  From the moment they got into Italy it was Lotty who seemed the elder.  She certainly was very happy; blissful, in fact.  Did happiness so completely protect one?  Did it make one so untouchable, so wise?  Rose was happy herself, but not anything like so happy.  Evidently not, for not only did she want to fight Mrs. Fisher but she wanted something else, something more than this lovely place, something to complete it; she wanted Frederick.  For the first time in her life she was surrounded by perfect beauty, and her one thought was to show it to him, to share it with him.  She wanted Frederick.  She yearned for Frederick.  Ah, if only, only Frederick . . .