Yes.  Nerves.  Probably she had no regular work for others, thought Mrs. Arbuthnot; no work that would take her outside herself.  Evidently she was rudderless—­blown about by gusts, by impulses.  Nerves was almost certainly her category, or would be quite soon if no one helped her.  Poor little thing, thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, her own balance returning hand in hand with her compassion, and unable, because of the table, to see the length of Mrs. Wilkins’s legs.  All she saw was her small, eager, shy face, and her thin shoulders, and the look of childish longing in her eyes for something that she was sure was going to make her happy.  No; such things didn’t make people happy, such fleeting things.  Mrs. Arbuthnot had learned in her long life with Frederick—­he was her husband, and she had married him at twenty and was not thirty-three—­where alone true joys are to be found.  They are to be found, she now knew, only in daily, in hourly, living for others; they are to be found only—­hadn’t she over and over again taken her disappointments and discouragements there, and come away comforted?—­at the feet of God.

Frederick had been the kind of husband whose wife betakes herself early to the feet of God.  From him to them had been a short though painful step.  It seemed short to her in retrospect, but I had really taken the whole of the first year of their marriage, and every inch of the way had been a struggle, and every inch of it was stained, she felt at the time, with her heart’s blood.  All that was over now.  She had long since found peace.  And Frederick, from her passionately loved bridegroom, from her worshipped young husband, had become second only to God on her list of duties and forbearances.  There he hung, the second in importance, a bloodless thing bled white by her prayers.  For years she had been able to be happy only by forgetting happiness.  She wanted to stay like that.  She wanted to shut out everything that would remind her of beautiful things, that might set her off again long, desiring . . .

“I’d like so much to be friends,” she said earnestly.  “Won’t you come and see me, or let me come to you sometimes?  Whenever you feel as if you wanted to talk.  I’ll give you my address”—­she searched in her handbag—­“and then you won’t forget.”  And she found a card and held it out.

Mrs. Wilkins ignored the card.

“It’s so funny,” said Mrs. Wilkins, just as if she had not heard her, “But I see us both—­you and me—­this April in the mediaeval castle.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot relapsed into uneasiness.  “Do you?” she said, making an effort to stay balanced under the visionary gaze of the shining grey eyes.  “Do you?”

“Don’t you ever see things in a kind of flash before they happen?” asked Mrs. Wilkins.

“Never,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

She tried to smile; she tried to smile the sympathetic yet wise and tolerant smile with which she was accustomed to listen to the necessarily biased and incomplete view of the poor.  She didn’t succeed.  The smile trembled out.