But Scrap had her doubts about this too.  Such talk meant a certain familiarity, meant embarking on a friendship with Mrs. Wilkins; and if, after having embarked on it and faced the peril it contained of too much Mrs. Wilkins, Mr. Wilkins should turn out to be artful—­and people did get very artful when they were set on anything—­and manage after all to slip through into the top garden, Mrs. Wilkins might easily believe she had been taken in, and that she, Scrap, was deceitful.  Deceitful!  And about Mr. Wilkins.  Wives were really pathetic.

At half-past four she heard sounds of saucers on the other side of the daphne bushes.  Was tea being sent out to her?

No; the sounds came no closer, they stopped near the house.  Tea was to be in the garden, in her garden.  Scrap considered she might at least have been asked if she minded being disturbed.  They all knew she sat there.

Perhaps some one would bring hers to her in her corner.

No; nobody brought anything.

Well, she was too hungry not to go and have it with the others to-day, but she would give Francesca strict orders for the future.

She got up, and walked with that slow grace which was another of her outrageous number of attractions towards the sounds of tea.  She was conscious not only of being very hungry but of wanting to talk to Mrs. Wilkins again.  Mrs. Wilkins had not grabbed, she had left her quite free all day in spite of the rapprochement the night before.  Of course she was an original, and put on a silk jumper for dinner, but she hadn’t grabbed.  This was a great thing.  Scrap went towards the tea-table quite looking forward to Mrs. Wilkins; and when she came in sight of it she saw only Mrs. Fisher and Mrs. Arbuthnot.

Mrs. Fisher was pouring out the tea, and Mrs. Arbuthnot was offering Mrs. Fisher macaroons.  Every time Mrs. Fisher offered Mrs. Arbuthnot anything—­her cup, or milk, or sugar—­Mrs. Arbuthnot offered her macaroons—­pressed them on her with an odd assiduousness, almost with obstinacy.  Was it a game?  Scrap wondered, sitting down and seizing a macaroon.

“Where is Mrs. Wilkins?” asked Scrap.

They did not know.  At least, Mrs. Arbuthnot, on Scrap’s inquiry, did not know; Mrs. Fisher’s face, at the name, became elaborately uninterested.

It appeared that Mrs. Wilkins had not been seen since breakfast.  Mrs. Arbuthnot thought she had probably gone for a picnic.  Scrap missed her.  She ate the enormous macaroons, the best and biggest she had ever come across, in silence.  Tea without Mrs. Wilkins was dull; and Mrs. Arbuthnot had that fatal flavour of motherliness about her, of wanting to pet one, to make one very comfortable, coaxing one to eat—­ coaxing her, who was already so frankly, so even excessively, eating—­ that seemed to have dogged Scrap’s steps through life.  Couldn’t people leave one alone?  She was perfectly able to eat what she wanted unincited.  She tried to quench Mrs. Arbuthnot’s zeal by being short with her.  Useless.  The shortness was not apparent.  It remained, as all Scrap’s evil feelings remained, covered up by the impenetrable veil of her loveliness.