Reading was very important; the proper exercise and development of one’s mind was a paramount duty.  How could one read if one were constantly trotting in and out?  Curious, this restlessness.  Was she going to be ill?  No, she felt well; indeed, unusually well, and she went in and out quite quickly—­trotted, in fact—­and without her stick.  Very odd that she shouldn’t be able to sit still, she thought, frowning across the tops of some purple hyacinths at the Gulf of Spezia glittering beyond a headland; very odd that she, who walked so slowly, with such dependence on her stick, should suddenly trot.

It would be interesting to talk to some one about it, she felt.  Not to Kate—­to a stranger.  Kate would only look at her and suggest a cup of tea.  Kate always suggested cups of tea.  Besides, Kate had a flat face.  That Mrs. Wilkins, now—­annoying as she was, loose-tongued as she was, impertinent, objectionable, would probably understand, and perhaps know what was making her be like this.  But she could say nothing to Mrs. Wilkins.  She was the last person to whom one would admit sensations.  Dignity alone forbade it.  Confide in Mrs. Wilkins?  Never.

And Mrs. Arbuthnot, while she wistfully mothered the obstructive Scrap at tea, felt too that she had had a curious day.  Like Mrs. Fisher’s, it had been active, but, unlike Mrs. Fisher’s, only active in mind.  Her body had been quite still; her mind had not been still at all, it had been excessively active.  For years she had taken care to have no time to think.  Her scheduled life in the parish had prevented memories and desires from intruding on her.  That day they had crowded.  She went back to tea feeling dejected, and that she should feel dejected in such a place with everything about her to make her rejoice, only dejected her the more.  But how could she rejoice alone?  How could anybody rejoice and enjoy and appreciate, really appreciate, alone?  Except Lotty.  Lotty seemed able to.  She had gone off down the hill directly after breakfast, alone yet obviously rejoicing, for she had not suggested that Rose should go too, and she was singing as she went.

Rose had spent the day by herself, sitting with her hands clasping her knees, staring straight in front of her.  What she was staring at were the grey swords of the agaves, and, on their tall stalks, the pale irises that grew in the remote place she had found, while beyond them, between the grey leaves and the blue flowers, she saw the sea.  The place she had found was a hidden corner where the sun-baked stones were padded with thyme, and nobody was likely to come.  It was out of sight and sound of the house; it was off any path; it was near the end of the promontory.  She sat so quiet that presently lizards darted over her feet, and some tiny birds like finches, frightened away at first, came back again and flitted among the bushes round her just as if she hadn’t been there.  How beautiful it was.  And what was the good of it with no one there, no one who loved being with one, who belonged to one, to whom one could say, “Look.”  And wouldn’t one say, “Look—­dearest?” Yes, one would say dearest; and the sweet word, just to say it to somebody who loved one, would make one happy.