“What a bore for you,” said Scrap.  “That’s what mother’s always doing—­inviting authors.  I hate authors.  I wouldn’t mind them so much if they didn’t write books.  Go on about Mellersh,” she said, turning to Mrs. Wilkins.

“Really—­” said Mrs. Fisher.

“All those empty beds,” said Mrs. Wilkins.

“What empty beds?” asked Scrap.

“The ones in this house.  Why, of course they each ought to have somebody happy inside them.  Eight beds, and only four people.  It’s dreadful, dreadful to be so greedy and keep everything just for oneself.  I want Rose to ask her husband out too.  You and Mrs. Fisher haven’t got husbands, but why not give some friend a glorious time?”

Rose bit her lip.  She turned red, she turned pale.  If only Lotty would keep quiet, she thought.  It was all very well to have suddenly become a saint and want to love everybody, but need she be so tactless?  Rose felt that all her poor sore places were being danced on.  If only Lotty would keep quiet . . .

And Mrs. Fisher, with even greater frostiness than that with which she had received Lady Caroline’s ignorance of the Blessed Damozel, said, “There is only one unoccupied bedroom in this house.”

“Only one?” echoed Mrs. Wilkins, astonished.  “Then who are in all the others?”

“We are,” said Mrs. Fisher.

“But we’re not in all the bedrooms.  There must be at least six.  That leaves two over, and the owner told us there were eight beds—­ didn’t he Rose?”

“There are six bedrooms,” said Mrs. Fisher; for both she and Lady Caroline had thoroughly searched the house on arriving, in order to see which part of it they would be most comfortable in, and they both knew that there were six bedrooms, two of which were very small, and in one of these small ones Francesca slept in the company of a chair and a chest of drawers, and the other, similarly furnished, was empty.

Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Arbuthnot had hardly looked at the house, having spent most of their time out-of-doors gaping at the scenery, and had, in the agitated inattentiveness of their minds when first they began negotiating for San Salvatore, got into their heads that the eight beds of which the owner spoke were the same as eight bedrooms; which they were not.  There were indeed eight beds, but four of them were in Mrs. Wilkins’s and Mrs. Arbuthnot’s rooms.

“There are six bedrooms,” repeated Mrs. Fisher.  “We have four, Francesca has the fifth, and the sixth is empty.”

“So that,” said Scrap, “However kind we feel we would be if we could, we can’t.  Isn’t it fortunate?”

“But then there’s only room for one?” said Mrs. Wilkins, looking round at the three faces.

“Yes—­and you’ve got him,” said Scrap.