The Enchanted April

Mrs. Arbuthnot believed she saw another fellow-creature in urgent need of her help—not merely material assistance like boots, blankets, and better sanitary arrangements, but "the more delicate help of comprehension, of finding the exact right words."

After trying various phrases about living for others, prayer, and peace found in surrendering to God, Mrs. Arbuthnot discovered the exact right words were simply a suggestion to answer an advertisement. The suggestion was non-committal—a mere inquiry—and what disturbed her was that she made it not only to comfort Mrs. Wilkins but from her own strange longing for a mediaeval castle.

Both women wrote to Z, Box 1000, *The Times*, asking for particulars about the castle. Mrs. Arbuthnot handled the business side, as she was older, calmer, and wiser. Both she and Mrs. Wilkins felt a sense of guilt once the letter was posted and irretrievable.

Accustomed to directing, leading, advising, and supporting others, Mrs. Arbuthnot found herself being led and influenced by an advertisement and an incoherent stranger. She failed to understand her sudden longing for self-indulgence when no such desire had entered her heart for years.

After posting the letter, both women felt the same sense of guilt. Mrs. Wilkins whispered that it proved how "immaculately good" they had been all their lives—the very first time they did anything their husbands didn't know about, they felt guilty.

Mrs. Wilkins insisted that their "sort of goodness" had made them unhappy, contrasting it with the "happy sort" they would have at the mediaeval castle. Mrs. Arbuthnot gently protested this leap to conclusions but acknowledged she felt uncomfortable at this fresh example of Mrs. Wilkins's tendency to leap at conclusions.

Mrs. Arbuthnot attended a meeting about the Hampstead poor, but her eyes were dazzled by secret visions. She looked almost furtive, with a "suppressed and frightened pleasedness" that would have suggested recent passionate lovemaking. Nobody contributed to the cause, and the meeting was poorly attended.

The vicar noticed his usual supporter wasn't succeeding as expected and observed she didn't seem to mind. When he complained that nothing moved the audience, she suggested they needed a holiday. He found her reply strange and went home irritated, perhaps not treating his wife kindly.

That night in her prayers, Mrs. Arbuthnot asked for guidance but lacked the courage to directly ask that the castle opportunity be removed. She justified spending her nest-egg on a holiday by reasoning she could accumulate another, as Frederick pressed money on her, and only her parish contributions would be temporarily reduced.

Mrs. Arbuthnot had no money of her own and lived on the proceeds of Frederick's activities. Her very nest-egg was "the fruit, posthumously ripened, of ancient sin"—proceeds from Frederick's memoirs of the mistresses of kings. She spent this money after adding slightly to her nest-egg on helping the poor.

Frederick wrote immensely popular memoirs of the mistresses of kings, publishing one every year of their married life. He began this career after marriage—previously he had been a blameless official at the British Museum. Mrs. Arbuthnot had persuaded him to publish under another name so she would not be publicly associated with his work.

Mrs. Arbuthnot lived on guilt-tainted money, which she passed through the poor as a "filter" to be purified. The parish flourished from the misbehavior of ladies like Du Barri, Montespan, Pompadour, Ninon de l'Enclos, and Maintenon. Their very boots were "stout with sins." She had once asked the vicar whether she should refuse the money, and through much delicate language, he appeared to be for the boots.

Mrs. Arbuthnot had loved Frederick too deeply to do anything but pray for him now. Her child had died, leaving her with nobody of her own. The poor became her children, and God the object of her love. She hung him up by her bedside as the chief subject of her prayers and left him entirely to God, though she blessed him invisibly with every step he took. Her face and eyes continued sad despite her attempts to find contentment in her devoted life.

Mr. Briggs, the English owner of the mediaeval castle called San Salvatore, was currently in London when he responded to the women's inquiry. His letter specified that the castle could accommodate eight people (excluding servants) with three sitting-rooms, battlements, dungeons, and electric light. The rent was £60 for one month, with servants' wages additional. Mr. Briggs required references—assurances from a solicitor, doctor, or clergyman—that the second half of the rent would be paid and that the tenants would be respectable. He was polite in his correspondence, explaining these requirements were merely formalities.

Both Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins were staggered by the £60 rent, having imagined something closer to three guineas a week. They saw visions of what else the money might purchase—Mrs. Arbuthnot pictured endless boots she could buy instead. Beyond rent, there would be servants' wages, food, and railway journeys to consider. The reference requirement posed particular difficulty, as explaining their plans to obtain them would make their scheme more public than intended. Both women also faced opposite pressures regarding their husbands: Mrs. Wilkins feared Mellersh's indignation if he learned she was spending her own money on such an indulgence, while Mrs. Arbuthnot dreaded Frederick's amused encouragement—a detachment that would leave her feeling completely alone. After a day of believing they would have to abandon the castle, they realized how deeply they had longed for it.

Mrs. Arbuthnot solved the reference problem with characteristic grace and practicality. She withdrew the full £60 from her Savings Bank and personally delivered the six ten-pound notes to Mr. Briggs at his address near the Brompton Oratory. Her grave demeanor, soft dark eyes, and parted hair made such an impression that Mr. Briggs abandoned all reference requirements immediately. He assumed from her hesitation about her husband that she was a war widow, and felt that asking references from her would be as impossible as asking them from a saint in a nimbus. He gave her the receipt, expressed wishes for her happiness at San Salvatore, mentioned that the castle would be covered in flowers in April, and noted that portraits of Madonnas on the stairs looked exactly like her. Mrs. Arbuthnot placed him in his proper category as an artist of effervescent temperament. He wished the interview had lasted longer and thought she made him think of his mother and nurse—everything kind and comforting.

While Mrs. Arbuthnot handled the references, Mrs. Wilkins received a vision for solving the expense problem. They would advertise in The Times Agony Column for two more ladies to share the rent, reducing each woman's share from half (£30) to a quarter (£15). Mrs. Wilkins, whose nest-egg was comparatively small (like a plover's egg to Mrs. Arbuthnot's duck's egg), was prepared to fling her entire egg into the adventure but only if it cost no more than her ninety pounds allowed. She imagined economizing on food—gathering olives and catching fish. Though they could theoretically fill all eight beds with additional sharers, they agreed that sharing rooms with strangers at night and having too many ladies might interfere with the peaceful retreat they sought.

The women received only two replies to their advertisement. Lady Caroline Dester came to the club in Shaftesbury Avenue, apparently seeking escape from everyone she had ever known. She was immediately satisfied: Italy was a place she adored, the arrangement was not a hotel (which she loathed), and she would not be staying with friends (persons she disliked). Most importantly, she would be with strangers who would never mention anyone she knew simply because they could not possibly know them. She asked about the fourth woman and was satisfied to learn Mrs. Fisher was a widow from Prince of Wales Terrace—another person unlikely to know her circle. Despite her social position, Lady Caroline felt shy of the middle-class women, having never encountered aristocracy before. She informed them she was twenty-eight.

Mrs. Fisher could not come to the club because she could not walk without a stick, so Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins visited her at home. She explained that sitting in trains was not walking about, which seemed sufficient. She appeared to be a most desirable fourth—quiet, educated, and elderly, though not so old as to be inactive-minded. She wore complete black eleven years after her husband's death and lived in a house full of signed photographs of Victorian literary luminaries. Her father had been an eminent critic, and she claimed to have known Carlyle, Matthew Arnold, and Tennyson as a child—though she had been unacquainted with Keats and Shakespeare, which struck Mrs. Wilkins as absurd given that the immortals seemed still alive. Mrs. Fisher's chief desire was to sit quiet in the sun and remember; she was very fond of flowers and had once spent a week-end with Meredith at Box Hill. Mrs. Fisher asked for references, explaining it was usual. Her concern was specifically about Mrs. Wilkins's health—was she an ordinary, everyday, sensible woman? Mrs. Fisher had no wish to find herself shut up with someone who saw things, particularly not someone who might claim to see her dead husband Mr. Fisher in the garden.

Mrs. Wilkins, feeling cornered, challenged the reference requirement by pointing out that they should be the ones asking for references, not the reverse. Mrs. Fisher responded by writing down three names: the President of the Royal Academy, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Governor of the Bank of England—names so momentous that questioning them was unthinkable. She said everyone had known her since she was little. Mrs. Wilkins then declared that references were undignified between ordinary decent women, and Mrs. Arbuthnot firmly stated that references brought an unwelcome atmosphere to their holiday plan and that they would neither take up Mrs. Fisher's references nor offer any of their own. She offered her hand in goodbye. Mrs. Fisher, recognizing that between herself and this calm-browed woman they could curb Mrs. Wilkins when necessary, changed her stance. "Very well. I waive references." Walking to the station, both women felt this phrasing was lofty; Mrs. Wilkins suggested waiving Mrs. Fisher herself, but Mrs. Arbuthnot held on to her as usual. On the train, Mrs. Wilkins announced that at San Salvatore Mrs. Fisher would find her level, her eyes bright with anticipation. Mrs. Arbuthnot quietly considered how to help Mrs. Wilkins not see quite so much—or at least see in silence.

The journey to San Salvatore is meticulously planned. Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins, travelling together, are to arrive on the evening of March 31st—a deliberate choice so they need not begin their time at the villa on April Fool's Day. Lady Caroline and Mrs. Fisher, who do not yet know each other and therefore have no obligation to engage in conversation during travel, are scheduled to arrive on the morning of April 2nd. This staggered arrival ensures that everything will be prepared for Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins, who despite the equal sharing arrangement, seem to carry something of the quality of guests.

Towards the end of March, Mrs. Wilkins musters the courage to inform her husband that she has been invited to Italy. The confession is traumatic: her heart in her mouth, her face a mixture of guilt, terror, and determination. Mr. Wilkins refuses to believe her—nobody has ever invited his wife to Italy before; there is no precedent. He demands proof. The only proof available is Mrs. Arbuthnot herself, and Mrs. Wilkins manages to produce her after considerable entreaty and passionate persuasion. Mrs. Arbuthnot is distressed to find herself facing Mr. Wilkins, forced to say things that fall short of the complete truth, which confirms her growing sense that she is slipping away from God.

The entire month of March is filled with unpleasant, anxious moments for Mrs. Arbuthnot. Her conscience, made super-sensitive by years of pampering, cannot reconcile her actions with its high standards of what is right. It gives her little peace, nudging her during prayers and punctuating her entreaties for divine guidance with disconcerting questions: "Are you not a hypocrite? Do you really mean that? Would you not, frankly, be disappointed if that prayer were granted?" The prolonged wet, raw weather compounds her guilt by producing more illness than usual among the poor, whom she serves. She finds herself unable to look the vicar in the face, excusing herself from making speeches appealing for money. Even when her husband Frederick generously gives her £100 without asking questions, she gives it all immediately to the organisation she works with, only to find herself more tangled in doubts than ever.

March proves anxious for both women, though for different reasons. Mrs. Arbuthnot wrestles with her conscience and the weight of her deception, while Mrs. Wilkins faces the daily challenge of her unconscious husband returning for dinner and eating his fish in imagined security. The weather is persistently vile—wind and rain week after week—and both women feel extraordinarily guilty about their impending departure, despite their different relationships to that guilt. Mrs. Wilkins has no doubts about the propriety of taking a holiday, but she has fears about how to tell Mellersh.

Throughout March, Mrs. Wilkins is exceptionally careful to serve Mellersh only the food he likes, buying ingredients and hovering over their cooking with more than common zeal. Her efforts succeed remarkably well: Mellersh is definitely pleased, so much so that he begins to think he may have married the right wife after all. This turn of events, however, sets the stage for complications, as Mrs. Wilkins had prepared herself to break the news of her invitation on the fourth Sunday of March, only to have circumstances change dramatically.

On the third Sunday of March, after a particularly well-cooked lunch—Yorkshire pudding melting in his mouth, apricot tart so perfect he ate it all—Mellersh, smoking his cigar by the fire while hail gusts bang on the window, informs his wife that he is thinking of taking her to Italy for Easter. He has noticed with increasing disgust the persistent vileness of the weather, is doing well in business, and believes Switzerland is useless in April. Italy seems ideal, and since it would cause comment not to take his wife, he must include her—useful for holding things and waiting with luggage in a country whose language he does not speak. Mrs. Wilkins is dumbfounded; she had planned to tell him that very next Sunday about her own invitation. Her silence is incomprehensible to him, and he repeats his proposal with acerbity, deploring her inattention at such a moment.

The afternoon becomes dreadful when Mellersh, profoundly indignant at having his intended treat thrown back at him, cross-examines his wife with the utmost severity. He demands that she refuse the invitation and write to cancel her acceptance. When he encounters what he describes as an unsuspected, shocking rock of obstinacy in her, he refuses to believe she has been invited to Italy at all, refusing to credit the existence of this Mrs. Arbuthnot he has never heard of until that moment. Only when Mrs. Arbuthnot is brought round—greatly distressed, wishing to throw the whole thing up rather than tell Mr. Wilkins less than the truth—and personally endorses his wife's statements does he finally give them credence. Mrs. Arbuthnot produces on him the same effect she produces on Tube officials: she hardly needs to say anything. Yet her conscience knows and will not let her forget that she gave him an incomplete impression. "Do you see any real difference," her conscience asks, "between an incomplete impression and a completely stated lie? God sees none."

The remainder of March becomes a confused bad dream for both women, who feel extraordinarily guilty despite their different perspectives. When they finally depart on the morning of the 30th, there is no exhilaration about the departure, no holiday feeling at all. At Victoria station, arriving an hour before they need have, Mrs. Wilkins paces and murmurs that they have been too good—much too good—which is why they feel as though they are doing wrong. She feels brow-beaten, no longer real human beings, and is indignant that their holiday is being spoiled simply because they have spoiled their husbands. She protests that they have done nothing wrong except for once want to go away by themselves and have a little rest from them.

The crossing is atrocious, the day wretched, blustering and wet, and both women are very sick. But arriving at Calais and no longer being sick feels like happiness, and it is there that the real splendour of what they are doing first begins to warm their benumbed spirits. Mrs. Wilkins is the first to feel it, and the feeling spreads from her like a rose-coloured flame over her pale companion. At Calais, where they restore themselves with soles (Mrs. Wilkins wanting to eat a sole Mellersh is not having), Mellersh has already begun to dwindle in importance—none of the French porters know him, not a single official cares a fig for him. In Paris there is no time to think of him because their train is late and they barely catch the Turin train at the Gare de Lyon. By the afternoon of the next day, when they cross into Italy, England, Frederick, Mellersh, the vicar, the poor, Hampstead, the club, Shoolbred—everybody and everything, the whole inflamed sore dreariness—has faded to the dimness of a dream.

The travelers are delighted to find themselves in Italy despite overcast skies, gazing out of train windows with rapt attention as hours pass quickly in anticipation. Genoa marks the beginning of heavy rain that follows them southward to Nervi, where downpours intensify. Yet even the rain cannot diminish their spirits, for they recognize it as proper Italian rain—falling straight and true rather than the blustery English variety that penetrates everywhere. They understand that the Italian weather, whatever form it takes, is simply part of the magic of being in this new country, and that when the rain stops, the earth will be strewn with roses.

The train arrives at Mezzago nearly four hours late, around midnight, to find solid sheets of rain falling. Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins scramble down from their carriage's high ladder-like steps into a black downpour, their skirts sweeping up sooty water as they struggle to manage their suit-cases. They stand uncertainly on what feels more like the permanent way than a proper platform, seeing no porter and uncertain what to do next after the train has departed. The original plan for a string of flys to transport them has been disrupted by the delay, but Domenico, the vigilant gardener at San Salvatore, has foreseen this difficulty and arranged for his aunt's fly to wait for them.

Domenico's cousin Beppo, who drives his aunt's fly, emerges from the darkness with a kind of pounce, speaking vociferously in Italian. He is a most respectable young man, though not particularly well-dressed, with a dripping hat slouched over one eye. The ladies are alarmed by the way he seizes their suit-cases and suspect he cannot be a porter, but through his streaming talk they discern the words "San Salvatore" and repeatedly say these words back to him as they follow him through puddles and across rails to where a small high fly awaits them. Beppo continues talking to them throughout their journey, certain that his clear explanations and illustrative gestures will eventually convey his meaning, while the ladies can only respond with the single Italian phrase they know.

The two women climb into the fly, which has its hood raised and a thoughtful-looking horse standing beside it. The moment they are inside, the horse awakens from reverie and begins racing homeward without Beppo and without their suit-cases. Beppo darts after the horse, shouting at it, and manages to catch the hanging reins just in time. He explains proudly that the horse always does this, being a fine animal full of corn and blood, and that the ladies must not be alarmed. The women clutch each other in terror, their faces white and fatigued, their big eyes watching Beppo over the tops of the suit-cases as he piles them around the women and continues talking loudly and gesticulating.

Beppo believes the women's waves and pointing gestures indicate they want him to drive faster, and a terrifying ten minutes ensues as he rises in his seat, cracks the whip, and lets the horse rush forward at great speed. Rocks leap towards them, the fly sways, the suit-cases heave, and the two women cling to each other in terror. The road twists around great jutting rocks with only a low wall separating them from the black emptiness of the sea below. When they near Castagneto, the horse stops suddenly at a rise in the road and proceeds up the slope at the slowest possible pace, throwing everything into a heap. Beppo turns expectantly for their admiration, but finds only pale, frightened faces staring back at him.

As they enter the village of Castagneto, the rocks give way to houses and the sea sounds fade, yet Beppo stands up again and makes the horse dash forward through the quiet village streets. The women hope to see the beginning of San Salvatore with its mediaeval archway and welcoming lights, but instead the fly stops abruptly in what appears to be simply the village street. A man and several half-grown boys appear from nowhere and begin dragging out the suit-cases. Despite the women's protests of "San Salvatore, San Salvatore," the men merely echo the words back and continue with the suit-cases. Mrs. Arbuthnot sits patiently, knowing she cannot fight against so many, and wonders whether her journey to this place has been sanctioned by Providence after all the deception required to arrange it. The two women conclude they must get out, though they cannot help noticing that the men do pause to open umbrellas for them, which provides a faint encouragement that perhaps these men are not wicked after all.

Domenico leads the way with a lantern while Beppo remains behind with the fly. The women cannot decide whether to pay Beppo, since they have not reached San Salvatore and suspect they may be about to be robbed and murdered. His acceptance of their departure without demanding payment seems like a bad sign, though they cannot know he will be separately paid by the household. They follow Domenico down steep steps and along a sloping path with flat stone slabs that are slippery in the wet, Domenico politely helping them maintain their footing. The path descends to an open space with houses on three sides and the sea lazily washing against pebbles on the fourth. Domenico points with his lantern to the black mass of San Salvatore curving around the water with a light visible on top, and the women can barely believe this is their destination.

They follow Domenico along the quay, right at the water's edge with no protective wall, past a jetty with a red light and through an archway with a heavy iron gate. The path winds upward among invisible but fragrant flowers, under trellises where trailing sprays catch at them and shake raindrops onto them. Lilies appear in the lantern's flicker. They cross a little bridge over a ravine, pass through trees along a zigzag path, and climb ancient steps worn smooth by centuries. Another iron gate admits them to an interior courtyard, and still they climb, twisting stone steps with old walls like dungeon walls and vaulted roofs overhead. Domenico runs lithely ahead and pushes open a wrought-iron door, flooding them with electric light and announcing their arrival with a satisfied "Ecco."

They have arrived at San Salvatore at last. Their suit-cases are waiting for them, and they have not been murdered. The two women look at each other's white faces and blinking eyes with solemnity, recognizing the significance of this moment. They are standing in their mediaeval castle at last, their feet touching its ancient stones. Domenico is delighted to see the beautiful ladies, though they cannot understand a word of his appreciative speech of welcome. They stand arm in arm, blinking and smiling at him, too tired to stand without mutual support, and not comprehending a single word he says.

Mrs. Wilkins puts her arm around Mrs. Arbuthnot's neck and kisses her. She declares solemnly that the first thing to happen in this house shall be a kiss. The women address each other with affection—Mrs. Wilkins calling Mrs. Arbuthnot "Dear Lotty" and Mrs. Arbuthnot responding with "Dear Rose"—as tears of gladness brim in their eyes. Domenico watches with approval, liking to see beautiful ladies kiss, and delivers another flow of polite words of welcome that the women do not understand in the slightest. They have achieved their journey at last, sharing this wonderful moment together in their rented mediaeval villa on the Italian coast.

Mrs. Wilkins wakes in a small bedroom with bare white walls and a stone floor at San Salvatore. The room contains two iron beds painted with flowers and sparse old furniture. She lies contentedly in bed, savoring the freedom of sleeping without her husband Mellersh for the first time in five years. The cool roominess and liberty of movement fill her with delight. She considers this her own little room, arranged to her own liking for one blessed month, a space she can bolt against intrusion. She luxuriates in the thought of her solitude, calling the chamber "Peace."

Mrs. Wilkins finally rises, pulls on her slippers, and runs to throw open the shutters. The radiant beauty of an April morning in Italy greets her. Sunlight floods the room, the sea lies still in the light, and across the bay lovely mountains sleep in radiant colors. A great cypress rises from the flowered grass slope below her window, cutting through the blues, violets, and rose-colors like a black sword.

The landscape spreads before Mrs. Wilkins in full splendor. Fishing boats hover like white birds on the tranquil bay. She stares in wonder at such beauty available to her. Lovely scents drift up from below, a gentle breeze lifts her hair. She marvels that she is alive to experience this moment, that she has not died before witnessing such magnificence.

Mrs. Wilkins feels an overwhelming joy so intense it nearly bursts her. She realizes with some surprise that she feels absolutely no twinges of guilt or unselfish concern, despite having done nothing noble. Back in Hampstead, she suffered endlessly from being "so terribly good," yet now, having left her goodness behind like sodden clothes, she feels only pure joy. She tries to visualize Mellersh but he dissolves into light, resolving into beauty and harmony with everything around her. She finds herself blessing God aloud.

Mrs. Wilkins dresses in clean white clothes for the summer day, tidying her room with quick, purposeful steps. Her face, usually puckered with effort and fear, is smoothed and relaxed. All her previous worries have dissolved like the image of Mellersh. While doing her hair, she notices for the first time in years how pretty it is, thinking of honey-colored curls. She laughs at the idea of telling Mellersh about her pretty hair, realizing she used to be afraid of him.

Mrs. Wilkins emerges from her room into the hall, where an open window frames a Judas tree in full flower. The spacious hall has tubs of arum lilies and a table with nasturtiums. She stands rapt before this scene, overwhelmed by its beauty. Mrs. Arbuthnot emerges from her room and finds her standing there. Mrs. Wilkins declares they are in God's hands, which startles Mrs. Arbuthnot, who had woken feeling secure and relieved. They embrace and share their immense happiness, agreeing that they have never been so content in their lives.

Arm in arm, the two women go to examine the Judas tree more closely. They gaze at it with the rapt expression of those seeing something heavenly, hardly believing such a tree could be merely a tree. Their faces are young with eagerness, transformed from their ordinary selves.

From the window, Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Arbuthnot spot Lady Caroline sitting on the low wall at the garden's east edge, feet dangling among lilies, gazing out over the bay in the bright sun. They are astonished by her appearance. She wears a white frock with bare head, and they realize for the first time how pretty she is—exceedingly slender, with fair hair, lovely grey eyes, dark lashes, white skin, and red mouth. She is sharply defined against the blue sky, full in the sunshine, heedless of the lilies beneath her feet.

Lady Caroline climbs down from the wall and approaches the two women. She mentions she arrived yesterday morning and has already chosen her preferred room, which looks two ways over the sea and the Judas tree. Mrs. Wilkins admiringly tells Lady Caroline she is "so pretty" and "quite, quite lovely." Lady Caroline is surprised by such blunt admirations, unaccustomed to being addressed so directly. When Mrs. Arbuthnot warns that beauty won't last, Lady Caroline replies she has been making the most of it since childhood.

Lady Caroline observes that the two women appear younger and less unattractive than they seemed at the club in London. She notes their clothes offer no hope of interest. Lady Caroline is having a violent reaction against beautiful clothes and the slavery they impose, having found that clothes take one in hand and demand constant attendance. She finds it restful to be with people in simple dresses. However, she begins to fear these two are "originals" who might bore her with their insistent personalities and dog her about. She wants complete escape and contrast from her previous life, not more of the same admiration.

Lady Caroline considers how she must also check Mrs. Fisher, who arrived two days early partly to avoid traveling with her. Lady Caroline had hoped to arrive first to pick the best rooms and to avoid Mrs. Fisher entirely. She sees no reason to have anything to do with Mrs. Fisher. She wants thirty restful, silent days lying in the sun, recovering from the fatigue of too much social engagement. She does not want to be spoken to, waited on, or grabbed at.

Despite Lady Caroline's intentions, Mrs. Fisher also wanted to arrive first and chose her own rooms. Lady Caroline and Mrs. Fisher traveled together after all—from Calais through Paris and Modane to Mezzago, where they drove to Castagneto in separate flys with their noses almost touching. When the road ended at the church steps, further evasion became impossible and they had to amalgamate.

Lady Caroline finds herself having to manage everything because of Mrs. Fisher's stick. Mrs. Fisher's intentions are active, but her stick prevents their execution. When boys must be found to carry luggage up to the castle, Lady Caroline goes in search of them while Mrs. Fisher waits in the fly. Mrs. Fisher speaks only Dante's Italian, which she says might be above the heads of boys. Thus Lady Caroline, who speaks ordinary Italian well, must do everything. She walks slowly with Mrs. Fisher as if she were her own grandmother.

During the zigzag path climb, Mrs. Fisher tells Lady Caroline about a path she once walked with Tennyson—Alfred Tennyson. She describes how at one of the bends he turned and spoke to her, though the story remains unfinished as Lady Caroline tries to disengage herself from this connection. Lady Caroline begins to realize she must check both the women upstairs and Mrs. Fisher, deciding to start immediately. She wishes she had simply waved from the wall instead of coming down.

The characters had anticipated preparing for Lady Caroline's arrival and watching her face when she first saw everything at San Salvatore. Finding that she had already arrived and prepared herself comes as a disappointment. They express this regret to each other as they stand observing her from a distance, noting that she seems absorbed in the scenery and takes no notice of them. With Lady Caroline having forestalled their welcome, they decide to concentrate on Mrs. Fisher instead, though they acknowledge they would have preferred to watch Lady Caroline's reaction.

They are led downstairs by Francesca, the elderly parlour-maid who has been with the owner of the villa for years. Following her through the hall and into the dining-room, they find Mrs. Fisher already seated at the head of the table, having her breakfast. Both Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins exclaim at this discovery, with Mrs. Wilkins expressing that it feels like having the bread taken out of one's mouth. Mrs. Fisher acknowledges them calmly, explaining she cannot get up because of her stick, and extends her hand in greeting.

Mrs. Fisher conducts herself with remarkable composure, resuming her breakfast and calmly removing the top of her egg. She ignores Mrs. Wilkins's expressions of disappointment about not being able to welcome her, instead addressing Mrs. Arbuthnot with marked preference. Mrs. Fisher serves herself coffee and tea that surrounds her at the head of the table, and when Francesca appears, she instructs her in Italian to bring more milk. Mrs. Wilkins attempts to engage with observations about cuckoos and makes cheerful comments, but Mrs. Fisher pointedly avoids responding to her. The exchange is punctuated by Mrs. Fisher offering coffee and tea, asking where Mrs. Arbuthnot will sit, and generally behaving as though she were the natural hostess of the household.

Mrs. Arbuthnot quietly reflects on the moral dimensions of the situation at San Salvatore. She considers that while all are sharing the villa equally, it was she and Mrs. Wilkins who found San Salvatore and did the work of getting it, and who chose to admit Mrs. Fisher. Without them, Mrs. Fisher would not have been there. Morally, Mrs. Fisher is a guest, but if there were a hostess, it would be either Mrs. Arbuthnot or Mrs. Wilkins—not Mrs. Fisher, nor Lady Caroline. Mrs. Arbuthnot cannot help feeling this as she observes Mrs. Fisher touching the gong on the table as though accustomed to it, and notes the curious air of possession that surrounds her. Mrs. Fisher, for her part, muses on her own respectability and the solid names that stand behind her, unconcerned about what these young women might think of her.

Mrs. Fisher mentions to Mrs. Arbuthnot that she had one of two beds removed from her bedroom for convenience, simply asking Francesca to do it without giving formal directions. This revelation illuminates for Mrs. Wilkins why her room has what seemed like an unnatural and inappropriate second bed. Mrs. Arbuthnot mentions she also has two beds in her room, which Mrs. Fisher explains must be Lady Caroline's bed, since Lady Caroline also had hers removed. Mrs. Fisher states that it seems foolish to have more beds in a room than there are occupiers. Mrs. Wilkins then asks if they can have their extra beds removed too, since they have no husbands to put in them. Mrs. Fisher responds coldly that beds cannot be removed from one room to another and must remain somewhere, considering Mrs. Wilkins's remarks persistently unfortunate and her loose talk about husbands most unpleasant.

Mrs. Arbuthnot, attempting to establish some role for herself as at least a non-guest, asks Mrs. Fisher what time she would like to have lunch. Mrs. Fisher states definitively that lunch is at half-past twelve, and Mrs. Arbuthnot agrees to tell the cook, mentioning she has brought a small dictionary to help communicate. Mrs. Fisher informs her that the cook already knows, as Lady Caroline has already told her, adding that Lady Caroline speaks the kind of Italian cooks understand. Mrs. Fisher notes she is prevented from going into the kitchen because of her stick. Mrs. Wilkins, delighted with these simplifications, stays at the table eating an orange and comments on how wonderfully they have nothing to do except be happy, noting how long they have been good without stopping and how much they need rest.

Mrs. Wilkins argues that allowing Mrs. Fisher to handle the ordering liberates them from unwanted responsibilities. She expresses serene indifference to authority, preferring freedom over control. Mrs. Arbuthnot recognizes Mrs. Wilkins's remarkable calm—quite different from her usual excited state—though she wonders about surrendering their found paradise to someone else's management.

Descending through the pergola, Mrs. Arbuthnot is overwhelmed by the garden's profusion: periwinkles cascading down stone steps, tumbling wistaria, scarlet geraniums, nasturtiums, marigolds, and blossoms of cherry and peach trees among the olives. They sit under a pine tree by the sea, removing shoes and stockings to let their feet hang in the warm water. Their happiness becomes complete and wordless.

The women stand in silence before the "crowd of loveliness" and "happy jumble," feeling that Mrs. Fisher's behavior no longer matters amid such beauty. Mrs. Wilkins declares the place heaven, where all are welcome—dandelions and irises, "the vulgar and the superior." When Lady Caroline offers them an icy reception from the wall above, Mrs. Wilkins dismisses it as impossible in heaven. Mrs. Arbuthnot wonders if Lady Caroline might be unhappy, and they resolve to help her.

Lady Caroline contemplates claiming the top garden as her private domain. She envies Mrs. Fisher's control over the battlements and notes the numerous other places available to the "originals." She persuades herself that each woman should have an exclusive sitting spot, craving the ability to be left alone and unaddressed—something she never experienced in England among pressing relations and friends.

The cook Costanza, Domenico's cousin and sister to a local restaurant keeper, seeks lunch orders in mounting agitation. Lady Caroline, irritated at being asked to manage household duties, gives elaborate orders featuring young vegetables, butter, cream, and eggs. Costanza praises English ladies for knowing how to order properly. Lady Caroline then realizes she's been extravagant, countermands the cream and chickens, and defers strawberries pending consultation with the other ladies. She insists she is not the mistress here and announces she will give no more orders.

Lady Caroline reflects that she never gives orders at home, where no one would dream of asking her to manage such matters. The absurdity of being thrust into housekeeping merely because she speaks Italian infuriates her. She believes Mrs. Fisher, with her housekeeper's air and appropriate clothing, should bear this burden instead. She delivers her ultimatum to Costanza with an angelically serious face, but Costanza remains delighted rather than compliant.

Hardly has Costanza departed when Domenico arrives to water and tie up plants, hovering ever closer to Lady Caroline. She cannot tell him to leave since he is performing his proper work. When she moves to rearrange chairs facing the sea, he darts after her to assist. She cannot be unkind to him, recognizing his intelligence and competence—he truly runs the house. She shuts her eyes in resignation, hoping he'll think she wants to sleep. He departs softly, closing the glass doors to protect her solitude, but his romantic Italian soul remains entranced by her beauty.

Alone at last, Lady Caroline experiences something most curious: she wants to think. This has never happened before. She had come intending only to lie comatose in the sun, lapped in forgetfulness, yet this strange new desire has taken hold of her. The evening before, under wonderful stars by the lily-crowded wall, her life suddenly seemed "a noise all about nothing." She had been aware her life was loud, but previously it seemed to be about something. Now she wonders if it was only about nothing.

Lady Caroline suspects her life until now has been not only loud but empty. Her best years—her first twenty-eight—may have passed in meaningless noise. She pauses to consider, realizing she has no many sets of twenty-eight years left. Two more such periods would make her grow very like Mrs. Fisher. Her mother dotes on her, and her departure to Italy with strangers from an advertisement led friends to conclude she was "nervy." Her mother would be miserable seeing her Scrap sitting alone considering such old things—things nobody begins to think about until at least forty.

Mrs. Fisher surveys her charming sitting-room with its tiled floor, honey-colored walls, amber furniture, and mellow books. She appreciates her view of the sea toward Genoa, the glass door leading to the battlements, and the watch-tower with chairs and a writing table. Her south view encompasses another hill with a smaller castle bearing bland turrets. The battlements are adorned with flower-filled stone receptacles or small sarcophagi. She feels very comfortably established in this space.

Mrs. Fisher contemplates how the battlements would be perfect for pacing or sitting, but unfortunately a second glass door opens onto them from the round drawing-room, destroying complete privacy. That room, which both she and Lady Caroline rejected as too dark, would likely be occupied by the women from Hampstead. She fears they would invade her battlements or even just watch through the glass door, making her feel unable to be perfectly at ease. She believes she has a right to privacy and sees no reason to intrude on others, though she might relax her privacy if her companions proved worth while—which she doubted they would.

Mrs. Fisher reflects that hardly anything is really worth while except the past. She marvels at the superiority of the past to the present. Her friends in London, solid persons of her own age, shared the same past she knew and could compare it with the tinkling present. In remembering great men, she could forget for a moment the trivial and barren young people who still seemed to litter the world despite the war. She had come away merely to avoid the treacheries of a London April, having told her friends she wished only to sit in the sun and remember. She therefore had a right to expect others to stay inside the round drawing-room.

Doubt about others' behavior spoiled Mrs. Fisher's morning until she found a way to ensure safety. She instructed Francesca to shut the shutters of the glass door in the round drawing-room, then had a cabinet of curios placed across it from the inside. She also had Domenico move a flower-filled sarcophagus across the door from the outside. When Domenico expressed concern that no one would be able to use the door, Mrs. Fisher firmly declared that no one would wish to. She then retired to her sitting-room and gazed at her battlements, now secured to her completely, with calm pleasure.

Mrs. Fisher reflects that being at San Salvatore was much cheaper than a hotel and, if she could keep off the others, immeasurably more agreeable. She was paying £3 a week for her rooms—about eight shillings a day—covering everything including battlements and watch-tower. She wondered where else abroad she could live as well for so little with unlimited baths. While she was well off and desired comforts proper to her age, she disliked expenses. She could have lived opulently in London with a Rolls-Royce, but such possessions required more vitality than true comfort allowed. Her annual outlay at Prince of Wales Terrace was small; the house was inherited, and death had furnished it for her. She planned to insist on carefulness combined with excellence regarding food costs, proposing that each guest contribute weekly to Lady Caroline with any unused amount returned and any excess borne by the caterer.

Mrs. Fisher recalls her inherited home on Prince of Wales Terrace with its Turkey carpet, black marble clock from her father, photographs of illustrious deceased friends, maroon curtains, and aquariums containing goldfishes from her youth. She wonders if they are the same goldfish or if they have replaced themselves over the years. She remembers Carlyle angrily striding up to the aquarium during an argument with her father and striking the glass with his fist, shouting at the fish about not having to hear her father's foolish talk. She considers Carlyle a great-souled man with natural gushings, true freshness, and real grandeur. Her father had said "Thomas is immortal," and Mrs. Fisher despairs of the current generation, which she describes as puny, raising little voices in doubt or failing to read Carlyle at all. She insists she has read him, though details escape her.

The gong sounds, and lost in reminiscence, Mrs. Fisher has forgotten time. She hastens to prepare and discovers she is the first to arrive in the dining-room. Francesca stands ready with an enormous dish of smoking maccaroni, but nobody else is there. Mrs. Fisher sits down looking stern, thinking the younger generation has lax manners. Francesca, who likes Mrs. Fisher least, serves her morosely because she is the only one of the four ladies who has not smiled. Mrs. Fisher does not care for maccaroni, especially the long worm-shaped variety, finding it difficult to eat as it slips and wriggles off her fork with ends hanging out. She is reminded of Mr. Fisher, who during their marriage behaved much like maccaroni—slipping, wriggling, making her feel undignified, with little bits always hanging out. She takes her knife to it and chops it small, knowing knives are improper but losing patience. She vows to tell Lady Caroline not to order it again and remembers Browning managing maccaroni wonderfully during a lunch with her father.

When Francesca asks if she should seek Lady Caroline, Mrs. Fisher says she knows lunch is at half-past twelve. Francesca beats the gong and advances on Lady Caroline, who lies stretched in her low garden chair. Lady Caroline responds with what sounds like music but is really invective, telling Francesca she will not come to meals when she doesn't wish to and to not disturb her in future. Francesca, admiring Lady Caroline's beautiful flax-like hair, concludes she is indisposed and hurries to tell Mrs. Fisher. Mrs. Fisher sends the other two ladies, who have just arrived heated and breathless with excuses. Mrs. Arbuthnot approaches with a gentle hand on Lady Caroline's forehead, but Lady Caroline, nicknamed Scrap, shuts her eyes and claims a headache to obtain peace. Mrs. Wilkins also approaches, and Scrap keeps her eyes shut, resolved to stay in the garden rather than endure intrusive company. Scrap thinks this isn't a private house but an hotel where she should be left alone. She cannot resist being touched despite her desires.

Mrs. Arbuthnot reports to Mrs. Fisher that Lady Caroline has a headache and won't accept tea or black coffee. Mrs. Fisher firmly declares that castor oil is the proper remedy. Mrs. Wilkins insists Lady Caroline hasn't a headache and merely wants to be left alone, explaining that Lady Caroline is still trying to be polite but will soon drop the pretense when the place "has got more into her." Mrs. Fisher, with no wish to hear Mrs. Wilkins's theory, interrupts icily, asking why Mrs. Wilkins assumes Lady Caroline is not telling the truth. Mrs. Wilkins responds that she saw inside Lady Caroline when she was in the garden. Mrs. Fisher considers this idiocy and raps the table-gong impatiently, demanding her next course be served. Francesca deliberately offers her the maccaroni again despite Mrs. Fisher's clear displeasure. Mrs. Wilkins struggles with the maccaroni, which Mrs. Fisher notes crosses her mind with shovel-like associations.

Mrs. Wilkins claims she knows Lady Caroline is not truly ill because when she was in the garden, she "saw inside her." The statement implies a supernatural or deeply intuitive understanding of Lady Caroline's true desires, suggesting the young woman's pretended headache masks a simple wish for solitude. This revelation creates tension among the women at lunch, with Mrs. Fisher dismissing Mrs. Wilkins's comment as idiocy and rapping the table-gong to demand service. Francesca appears to side with Mrs. Wilkins in spirit, offering Mrs. Fisher the maccaroni again deliberately.

The Garden at San Salvatore The garden at San Salvatore is accessible only through two side-by-side glass doors leading from the dining-room and hall, making privacy impossible. The small, oblong space contains a Judas tree, tamarisk, and umbrella-pine near low parapets, with rose bushes offering little concealment. Only the north-west corner provides a secluded nook—an excrescence or loop in the old wall used for observation—where one can sit unseen due to a thick clump of daphne separating it from the house.

The North-West Corner Loop This sheltered corner proves ideal for someone seeking privacy. The text contrasts it with a similar excrescence at the north-east corner, which offers superior views of the bay and mountains behind Mezzago but lacks shade and bushes. The north-west loop, with its daphne barrier, becomes the chosen retreat.

Scrap's Seclusion Lady Caroline ("Scrap") sneaks away after lunch to sit in the north-west corner, tiptoeing carefully as if her purpose were sinful. She nestles into her cushion with feet on the parapet, feeling safe from discovery. She has chosen this spot specifically because she believes herself hidden from the other guests.

Mrs. Fisher's Discovery Mrs. Fisher detects Scrap through the smell of cigarette smoke drifting from the secluded corner. Despite not smoking herself, she has a keen sense of smell for others' tobacco. After lunch coffee is set up outside the dining-room glass door, and Mrs. Fisher uses this opportunity to investigate. Her stick, which hinders her movement before meals, is now no obstacle.

The Medical Consultation Mrs. Fisher approaches the resting Scrap with concern, attributing her condition to travel exhaustion and recommending simple medicine—possibly castor oil from the village. Scrap pretends to sleep but fails to drop her cigarette, revealing her wakefulness. Mrs. Fisher sits on a narrow stone seat built into the wall and warns Scrap about Italian health risks, urging her to go to bed. Scrap defiantly declares she never goes to bed.

Scrap's Speaking Voice The text celebrates Scrap's extraordinary speaking voice, which has brought her ten years of triumphs since her debut. Her voice makes everything she says seem memorable, and she possesses a musical quality absent in other forms of music. Her voice creates a peculiar effect on all men—whether educated or uneducated, old or young, married or single—causing a flame of intensest interest to leap into their eyes upon hearing her speak.

Scrap's War and Bitterness Scrap recalls her early delight in the attention her beauty commanded, but experiences gradually accumulated around her. She discovered she had to defend herself constantly, as the leaping look meant she would be grabbed at by admirers. Her cynicism deepened after the war killed the one man she felt safe with, whom she would have married. She now feels trapped like a wasp in honey, disgusted by love and tired of men who speak of nothing else. Her disillusionment has made her bitter toward life itself.

The Anonymous Marchioness Scrap learns with relief that Mrs. Fisher has no knowledge of her identity or her prominent family—the great name of Dester that figures in English history. As a major marchioness whose father held high positions at Court, she finds it restful to encounter someone unaware of her social standing. During an interview in Shaftesbury Avenue, the originals seemed not to recognize her either, having asked no questions or requested references.

Seeking a Conclusion Scrap reveals to Mrs. Fisher that her purpose at San Salvatore is to "come to a conclusion"—to think clearly, clear up her mind, and reach some resolution. She expresses this with animation, describing it as wanting to get hold of something and stop drifting. When Mrs. Fisher suggests she needs a husband and children, Scrap politely acknowledges this as one possibility but states it would not constitute a proper conclusion.

Mrs. Fisher's Return Mrs. Fisher departs in cold disapproval after Scrap expresses dislike for being looked at and for "very great people." Scrap is unconcerned, satisfied as long as people leave her alone. Mrs. Fisher reflects on what she perceives as the pose of modern young women—silliness masked as cleverness—and determines to have no more patience with such behavior.

The Sitting-Room Gathering Mrs. Fisher proceeds to her private sitting-room, still irritated by Scrap's attitude. Earlier concerns about Scrap's peculiar behavior are mentioned—her slinking away from people and avoiding everyone except very young men. Scrap's father dismisses her oddities, saying a woman with her looks can be any damn thing she pleases.

Mrs. Wilkins at Her Desk In Mrs. Fisher's sitting-room, she encounters Mrs. Arbuthnot calmly drinking coffee and Mrs. Wilkins at the writing-table. Mrs. Wilkins is using her own pen brought specifically from Prince of Wales Terrace to write to Mellersh, assuring him of her safe arrival. Mrs. Fisher views this intrusion into her private space as another example of the presumptuous behavior that vexes her.

The sweet fragrances pervading San Salvatore create an atmosphere of peace and concord. Mrs. Wilkins marvels at the bounteous beauty surrounding them, convinced that such gentleness could dissolve anger and selfishness. Yet Mrs. Fisher appears resistant to this transformative atmosphere, still clinging to possessive instincts and attempting to claim exclusive use of the sitting-room. Mrs. Wilkins believes Mrs. Fisher will inevitably overcome her "Prince of Wales Terrace attitude" once she surrenders to the place's extraordinary peace.

Mrs. Fisher demands that Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Arbuthnot leave her private sitting-room, citing her own photographs, notepaper with her London address, and a pen as evidence of her prior claim. Despite Rose's unwillingness to yield, Mrs. Wilkins takes charge of the situation with characteristic good humor. She acknowledges Mrs. Fisher's territorial instinct while confidently predicting that soon Mrs. Fisher will not only share but may even ask to lend her pen. Mrs. Wilkins firmly guides the reluctant Rose out of the room, exemplifying her newfound equanimity.

Mrs. Wilkins explains to Mrs. Fisher that they will gladly let her have the room if it makes her happy, recognizing the poor old thing's need for quiet and solitude. She dismisses Rose's indignation, pointing out that other pleasant places exist and material possessions matter little in the face of such beauty.

Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Arbuthnot depart from the room. Rose observes her friend's transformation—with the arrival of Italy, the formerly gusty Lotty has become balanced and sweet-tempered. Mrs. Wilkins decides to walk down to the village to post her letter and inquire about the post-office, inviting Rose to accompany her.

The two friends descend the narrow zigzag path together, their positions reversed from their English dynamic—now it is the newly confident Mrs. Wilkins who leads while the once more assertive Rose follows. Mrs. Wilkins reveals her remorse about having left Mellersh behind, confessing that she had been "a mean dog" to escape to Italy when her husband had planned to take her there himself as an Easter holiday. Mrs. Arbuthnot, who has carefully avoided talk of husbands, listens with surprise as her friend displays unexpected penitence.

Mrs. Wilkins discloses that she has already written to Mellersh, confessing her selfishness and inviting him to join them at San Salvatore. She marvels at how quickly she has transformed from a "stingy beast" measuring love in terms of fairness to someone overflowing with affection. Rose is bewildered by her friend's rapid spiritual development, watching her become "impetuously a saint." Mrs. Wilkins explains that the villa has "flooded" her with love, dissolving her former obsession with justice, which she now recognizes as indistinguishable from vengeance. Only love matters, she insists, though she remains uncertain whether Mellersh himself will be changed by the place.

Mrs. Wilkins reveals that she has sent her letter inviting Mellersh to visit. She dismisses the apparent illogicality of writing to the very people she fled, explaining that happiness and wholeness demand sharing. Rose wishes she could similarly invite her own husband, but knows Frederick would not respond with warmth—only a bored scribble that would wound her more than silence. Observing Lotty's conviction that what she sees comes true, Rose fears Mr. Wilkins will soon materialize at the villa.

Rose pauses on the path, needing time to absorb her friend's rapid evolution. While Mrs. Wilkins has found release in spontaneous goodness, Rose's own experience suggests goodness requires painful, sustained struggle. Surrounded by perfect beauty, Rose yearns only to share it with Frederick—she wants Frederick, longs for Frederick with an ache that perfection alone cannot satisfy.

Mrs. Wilkins senses Rose's distress and encourages her to write to her husband immediately. Rose, startled, realizes her longing has become visible. The chapter closes with this gentle imperative, suggesting that the transformative power of San Salvatore might extend even to the reunion of separated hearts.

The first evening meal at San Salvatore brings together all four women at the dining-room table. Costanza has prepared an excellent dinner, though the guests are too absorbed in their conversation to notice the cooking's quality.

Lady Caroline ("Scrap") appears for dinner wearing a stunning shell-pink tea-gown that clings to her figure. The thin garment reveals much of her, including her arms and more beneath.

Mrs. Wilkins exclaims over Scrap's beauty, calling the dress "ravishing." Scrap dismisses the gown as an old rag she's had for years.

Mrs. Fisher expresses concern that Scrap will catch a chill in the thin dress, calling her behaviour "highly improper" and "imprudent." She believes the dress is indecent, though she herself dressed formally while the younger women merely changed into silk jumpers. Mrs. Fisher sees Scrap as "bird-brained" and considers her inconsiderate for risking illness that might infect the whole party.

Mrs. Wilkins points out that since no men are present, the question of impropriety seems strange. She observes that it is difficult to be improper without men, prompting Scrap to smile at her. Mrs. Fisher deliberately avoids responding to this observation.

Scrap notes Mrs. Wilkins's lively face and appreciates her genuine expressions. She observes that both Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Fisher have only put on silk jumpers rather than proper evening dress, though she acknowledges they are still young and attractive. Scrap reflects briefly on how differently life might unfold for them if they made more of themselves, then dismisses the thought as unimportant.

Mrs. Wilkins announces she has invited someone to stay. When Mrs. Fisher demands to know who, she learns it is a man—Mrs. Wilkins's own husband, Mellersh. Mrs. Fisher is shocked, having assumed the Hampstead women were widows. She cannot understand why Mrs. Wilkins speaks of "a husband" rather than "my husband," and recalls Ruskin's view that marriage creates the closest of all relations.

Mrs. Wilkins suggests filling the house's empty beds with happy guests, but Mrs. Fisher coldly informs her there is only one unoccupied bedroom. In fact, the house has only six bedrooms: four occupied by the women, one by Francesca, and one empty. Mrs. Wilkins had misunderstood, thinking eight beds meant eight bedrooms, when in fact four of the beds are in her and Mrs. Arbuthnot's rooms.

Mrs. Wilkins is taken aback to learn there is only one spare room. She worries about where to put Mellersh—whether sharing her room would risk spoiling her newfound feelings for him, or whether using the spare room would prevent the others from inviting guests. Mrs. Fisher interjects that the spare room should not be reserved exclusively for family, and is deeply troubled by the indecent discussion of where husbands should sleep. Lady Caroline supports giving Mellersh the spare room, calling any other arrangement "barbarous."

In the drawing-room, Mrs. Wilkins expresses relief that Mellersh can have the spare room. Lady Caroline agrees, but Mrs. Fisher then announces her intention to invite a friend—Kate Lumley. Complete silence falls. Mrs. Fisher proceeds to explain her wish to invite Kate, who could pay her own expenses, was of her period, and would provide companionship against these "alien-minded young women."

Mrs. Fisher considers Kate Lumley a suitable guest who would remain grateful for the invitation. Kate has always been on the fringe of society, never married, but comfortably off enough to contribute financially. Mrs. Fisher sees Kate as a support against the other women, who despite physical isolation between meals, would leave her spiritually isolated without a companion.

Scrap declares that this settles the question of Mellersh. Mrs. Fisher confirms it settles the question in "the only way that is right." Lady Caroline warns Mrs. Wilkins she may be "in for it," but Mrs. Wilkins, perturbed and uncertain of her stability in her newfound state of grace, can only say uneasily that she still sees him there.

The arrangement is confirmed: Mellersh will occupy the sole spare room, with Mrs. Fisher's friend Kate joining her to prevent any further complications. The household reaches a quiet settlement over the housing of guests and the proper disposition of available rooms.

That first week the wistaria began to fade, and the flowers of the Judas-tree and peach-trees fell off and carpeted the ground with rose-colour. Then all the freesias disappeared, and the irises grew scarce. And then, while these were clearing themselves away, the double banksia roses came out, and the big summer roses suddenly flaunted gorgeously on the walls and trellises. Fortune's Yellow was one of them; a very beautiful rose. Presently the tamarisk and the daphnes were at their best, and the lilies at their tallest. By the end of the week the fig-trees were giving shade, the plum-blossom was out among the olives, the modest weigelias appeared in their fresh pink clothes, and on the rocks sprawled masses of thick-leaved, star-shaped flowers, some vivid purple and some a clear, pale lemon.

By the end of the week, too, Mr. Wilkins arrived; even as his wife had foreseen he would, so he did. And there were signs almost of eagerness about his acceptance of her suggestion, for he had not waited to write a letter in answer to hers, but had telegraphed. That, surely, was eager. It showed, Scrap thought, a definite wish for reunion.

By the end of the week, she and Mrs. Wilkins had become Caroline and Lotty to each other, and were friends. Mrs. Wilkins had always been friends, but Scrap had struggled not to be. She had tried hard to be cautious, but how difficult was caution with Mrs. Wilkins! Free herself from every vestige of it, she was so entirely unreserved, so completely expansive, that soon Scrap, almost before she knew what she was doing, was being unreserved too. And nobody could be more unreserved than Scrap, once she let herself go. The only difficulty about Lotty was that she was nearly always somewhere else. You couldn't catch her; you couldn't pin her down to come and talk.

Scrap watched her, interested in spite of herself, because it seemed so extraordinary to be as happy as all that on so little. San Salvatore was beautiful, and the weather was divine; but scenery and weather had never been enough for Scrap, and how could they be enough for somebody who would have to leave them quite soon and go back to life in Hampstead? Still, she had to admit there was no effort about Lotty; it was quite plain that everything she did and said was effortless, and that she was just simply, completely happy.

And so Mrs. Wilkins was; for her doubts as to whether she had had time to become steady enough in serenity to go on being serene in Mellersh's company when she had it uninterruptedly right round the clock, had gone by the middle of the week, and she felt that nothing now could shake her. She was ready for anything. She was firmly grafted, rooted, built into heaven. Whatever Mellersh said or did, she would not budge an inch out of heaven, would not rouse herself a single instant to come outside it and be cross. By the beginning of the last half, she left off even assuring herself that she was unshakeable; she no longer thought of it or noticed it; she took it for granted. She had found her celestial legs.

Contrary to Mrs. Fisher's idea of the seemly, she did not go to meet her husband at Mezzago, but merely walked down to the point where Beppo's fly would leave him and his luggage in the street of Castagneto. Mrs. Fisher disliked the arrival of Mr. Wilkins, and was sure that anybody who could have married Mrs. Wilkins must be at least of an injudicious disposition, but a husband, whatever his disposition, should be properly met. Mr. Fisher had always been properly met. These observances, these courtesies, strengthened the bonds of marriage. But Mrs. Wilkins took no pains. She just walked down the hill singing, and picked up her husband in the street as casually as if he were a pin. All three had breakfast that day in their rooms, moved by a common instinct to take cover.

Scrap always breakfasted in bed, but she had the same instinct for cover, and during breakfast she made plans for spending the whole day where she was. Scrap calculated she would be quite safe in the garden that day, and got up as usual after breakfast. She finished dressing, and then loitered at her window, waiting till she should hear Mr. Wilkins go into the bathroom. When he was safely there she would slip out and settle herself in her garden and resume her inquiries into the probable meaning of her life. She was getting on with her inquiries. She dozed much less frequently, and was beginning to be inclined to agree that tawdry was the word to apply to her past. Also she was afraid that her future looked black.

His steps went along the landing, and Lotty's steps seemed to go downstairs, and then there seemed to be a brief altercation at the bathroom door. Mr. Wilkins knew no Italian, and the expression pericoloso left him precisely as it found him. He firmly closed the door on the servants, resisting Domenico, and locked himself in. Impartially examining this reflection, and carefully balancing the claims to civilisation of Italy and Finland, Mr. Wilkins got into the bath and turned off the tap. Naturally he turned off the tap. It was what one did. But on the instructions, printed in red letters, was a paragraph saying that the tap should not be turned off as long as there was still fire in the stove. Mr. Wilkins got into the bath, turned off the tap, and the stove blew up, exactly as the printed instructions said it would. It blew up with a terrific noise, and Mr. Wilkins leapt out of the bath and rushed to the door.

Scrap, half-way across the landing on her way out of doors, heard the explosion. "Good heavens," she thought, and she ran toward the head of the stairs to call the servants, and as she ran, out ran Mr. Wilkins clutching his towel, and they ran into each other. "That damned bath!" cried Mr. Wilkins. Here was an introduction. Mr. Wilkins, imperfectly concealed in his towel, his shoulders exposed at one end and his legs at the other, and Lady Caroline Dester. But Mr. Wilkins was reckoning without Scrap. She, indeed, screwed up her face at the first flash of him in an enormous effort not to laugh, and having choked the laughter down and got her face serious again, she said as composedly as if he had had all his clothes on, "How do you do." What perfect tact. Mr. Wilkins could have worshipped her. This exquisite ignoring. Blue blood, of course, coming out.

Overwhelmed with gratitude he took her offered hand and said "How do you do," in his turn. He was so much relieved, and it was so natural to be shaking hands, to be conventionally greeting, that he forgot he had only a towel on and his professional manner came back to him. He must at once entreat her forgiveness. "I'm afraid I used unpardonable language," began Mr. Wilkins very earnestly. "I thought it most appropriate," said Scrap, who was used to damns. Mr. Wilkins was incredibly relieved and soothed by this answer. No offence, then, taken. Blue blood again.

The servants when they heard the dreaded noise knew at once what had happened, and rushed straight into the bathroom to try and staunch the flood, taking no notice of the figure on the landing in the towel, but Mrs. Fisher did not know what the noise could be, and coming out of her room to inquire stood rooted on the door-sill. It was enough to root anybody. Then Scrap became aware of Mrs. Fisher. She turned to her at once. "Do let me," she said gracefully, "introduce Mr. Mellersh-Wilkins. He has just come. This," she added, turning to Mr. Wilkins, "is Mrs. Fisher." And Mr. Wilkins, nothing if not courteous, reacted at once to the conventional formula. First he bowed to the elderly lady in the doorway, then he crossed over to her, his wet feet leaving footprints as he went, and having got to her he politely held out his hand. "It is a pleasure," said Mr. Wilkins in his carefully modulated voice, "to meet a friend of my wife's."

After the servants rushed past and Mrs. Fisher appeared to witness the extraordinary scene of Lady Caroline formally greeting the towel-clad Mr. Wilkins with perfect composure, Scrap completed her introduction and then quietly withdrew. She made her way downstairs and out into the garden, where she had planned to spend the day resuming her philosophical inquiries about the meaning of her life, having calculated that Mr. Wilkins would be occupied for hours with his bath, unpacking, and sleep.

The strange effect of the bath incident was that when they met that evening at dinner both Mrs. Fisher and Lady Caroline had a singular feeling of secret understanding with Mr. Wilkins. He could not be to them as other men. He could not be to them as he would have been if they had met him in his clothes. There was a sense of broken ice; they felt at once intimate and indulgent; almost they felt to him as nurses do—as those feel who have assisted either patients or young children at their baths. They were acquainted with Mr. Wilkins's legs.

What Mrs. Fisher said to him that morning in her first shock will never be known, but what Mr. Wilkins said to her in reply, when reminded by what she was saying of his condition, was so handsome in its apology, so proper in its confusion, that she had ended by being quite sorry for him and completely placated. After all, it was an accident, and nobody could help accidents. And when she saw him next at dinner, dressed, polished, spotless as to linen and sleek as to hair, she felt this singular sensation of a secret understanding with him and, added to it, of a kind of almost personal pride in his appearance, now that he was dressed, which presently extended in some subtle way to an almost personal pride in everything he said. There was no doubt whatever in Mrs. Fisher's mind that a man was infinitely preferable as a companion to a woman. Mr. Wilkins's presence and conversation at once raised the standard of the dinner-table from that of a bear garden—yes, a bear garden—to that of a civilised social gathering. He talked as men talk, about interesting subjects, and, though most courteous to Lady Caroline, showed no traces of dissolving into simpers and idiocy whenever he addressed her. He was, indeed, precisely as courteous to Mrs. Fisher herself; and when for the first time at that table politics were introduced, he listened to her with the proper seriousness on her exhibiting a desire to speak, and treated her opinions with the attention they deserved. He appeared to think much as she did about Lloyd George, and in regard to literature he was equally sound. In fact there was real conversation, and he liked nuts. How he could have married Mrs. Wilkins was a mystery.

Lotty, for her part, looked on with round eyes. She had expected Mellersh to take at least two days before he got to this stage, but the San Salvatore spell had worked instantly. It was not only that he was pleasant at dinner, for she had always seen him pleasant at dinners with other people, but he had been pleasant all day privately—so pleasant that he had complimented her on her looks while she was brushing out her hair, and kissed her. Kissed her! And it was neither good-morning nor good-night. Well, this being so, she would put off telling him the truth about her nest-egg, and about Rose not being his hostess after all, till next day. Pity to spoil things. She had been going to blurt it out as soon as he had had a rest, but it did seem a pity to disturb such a very beautiful frame of mind as that of Mellersh this first day. Let him too get more firmly fixed in heaven. Once fixed he wouldn't mind anything. Her face sparkled with delight at the instantaneous effect of San Salvatore. Even the catastrophe of the bath, of which she had been told when she came in from the garden, had not shaken him. Of course all that he had needed was a holiday. What a brute she had been to him when he wanted to take her himself to Italy. But this arrangement, as it happened, was ever so much better, though not through any merit of hers. She talked and laughed gaily, not a shred of fear of him left in her, and even when she said, struck by his spotlessness, that he looked so clean that one could eat one's dinner off him, and Scrap laughed, Mellersh laughed too. He would have minded that at home, supposing that at home she had had the spirit to say it.

It was a successful evening. Scrap, whenever she looked at Mr. Wilkins, saw him in his towel, dripping water, and felt indulgent. Mrs. Fisher was delighted with him. Rose was a dignified hostess in Mr. Wilkins's eyes, quiet and dignified, and he admired the way she waived her right to preside at the head of the table—as a graceful compliment, of course, to Mrs. Fisher's age. Mrs. Arbuthnot was, opined Mr. Wilkins, naturally retiring. She was the most retiring of the three ladies. He had met her before dinner alone for a moment in the drawing-room, and had expressed in appropriate language his sense of her kindness in wishing him to join her party, and she had been retiring. Was she shy? Probably. She had blushed, and murmured as if in deprecation, and then the others had come in. At dinner she talked least. He would, of course, become better acquainted with her during the next few days, and it would be a pleasure, he was sure. Meanwhile Lady Caroline was all and more than all Mr. Wilkins had imagined, and had received his speeches, worked in skilfully between the courses, graciously; Mrs. Fisher was the exact old lady he had been hoping to come across all his professional life; and Lotty had not only immensely improved, but was obviously au mieux—Mr. Wilkins knew what was necessary in French—with Lady Caroline. He had been much tormented during the day by the thought of how he had stood conversing with Lady Caroline forgetful of his not being dressed, and had at last written her a note most deeply apologising, and beseeching her to overlook his amazing, his incomprehensible obliviousness, to which she had replied in pencil on the back of the envelope, "Don't worry." And he had obeyed her commands, and had put it from him. The result was he was now in great contentment. Before going to sleep that night he pinched his wife's ear. She was amazed. These endearments... What is more, the morning brought no relapse in Mr. Wilkins, and he kept up to this high level throughout the day, in spite of its being the first day of the second week, and therefore pay day.

Its being pay day precipitated Lotty's confession, which she had, when it came to the point, been inclined to put off a little longer. She was not afraid, she dared anything, but Mellersh was in such an admirable humour—why risk clouding it just yet? When, however, soon after breakfast Costanza appeared with a pile of very dirty little bits of paper covered with sums in pencil, and having knocked at Mrs. Fisher's door and been sent away, and at Lady Caroline's door and been sent away, and at Rose's door and had no answer because Rose had gone out, she waylaid Lotty, who was showing Mellersh over the house, and pointed to the bits of paper and talked very rapidly and loud, and shrugged her shoulders a great deal, and kept on pointing at the bits of paper. Lotty remembered that a week had passed without anybody paying anything to anyone, and that the moment had come to settle up. "Does this good lady want something?" inquired Mr. Wilkins mellifluously. "Money," said Lotty. "Money?" "It's the housekeeping bills." "Well, you have nothing to do with those," said Mr. Wilkins serenely. "Oh yes, I have—" And the confession was precipitated.

It was wonderful how Mellersh took it. One would have imagined that his sole idea about the nest-egg had always been that it should be lavished on just this. He did not, as he would have done at home, cross-examine her; he accepted everything as it came pouring out, about her fibs and all, and when she had finished and said, "You have every right to be angry, I think, but I hope you won't be and will forgive me instead," he merely asked, "What can be more beneficial than such a holiday?" Whereupon she put her arm through his and held it tight and said, "Oh, Mellersh, you really are too sweet!"—her face red with pride in him. That he should so quickly assimilate the atmosphere, that he should at once become nothing but kindness, showed surely what a real affinity he had with good and beautiful things. He belonged quite naturally in this place of heavenly calm. He was—extraordinary how she had misjudged him—by nature a child of light. Fancy not minding the dreadful fibs she had gone in for before leaving home; fancy passing even those over without comment. Wonderful. Yet not wonderful, for wasn't he in heaven? In heaven nobody minded any of those done-with things, one didn't even trouble to forgive and forget, one was much too happy. She pressed his arm tight in her gratitude and appreciation; and though he did not withdraw his, neither did he respond to her pressure. Mr. Wilkins was of a cool habit, and rarely had any real wish to press.

Meanwhile, Costanza, perceiving that she had lost the Wilkinses' ear had gone back to Mrs. Fisher, who at least understood Italian, besides being clearly in the servants' eyes the one of the party marked down by age and appearance to pay the bills; and to her, while Mrs. Fisher put the final touches to her toilette, for she was preparing, by means of putting on a hat and veil and feather boa and gloves, to go for her first stroll in the lower garden—positively her first since her arrival—she explained that unless she was given money to pay the last week's bills the shops of Castagneto would refuse credit for the current week's food. Not even credit would they give, affirmed Costanza, who had been spending a great deal and was anxious to pay all her relations what was owed them and also to find out how her mistresses took it, for that day's meals. Soon it would be the hour of colazione, and how could there be colazione without meat, without fish, without eggs, without— Mrs. Fisher took the bills out of her hand and looked at the total; and she was so much astonished by its size, so much horrified by the extravagance to which it testified, that she sat down at her writing-table to go into the thing thoroughly. Costanza had a very bad half-hour. She had not supposed it was in the English to be so mercenary. And then la Vecchia, as she was called in the kitchen, knew so much Italian, and with a doggedness that filled Costanza with shame on her behalf, for such conduct was the last one expected from the noble English, she went through item after item, requiring and persisting till she got them, explanations. There were no explanations, except that Costanza had had one glorious week of doing exactly as she chose, of splendid unbridled licence, and that this was the result. Costanza, having no explanations, wept. It was miserable to think she would have to cook from now on under watchfulness, under suspicion; and what would her relations say when they found the orders they received were whittled down? They would say she had no influence; they would despise her. Costanza wept, but Mrs. Fisher was unmoved. In slow and splendid Italian, with the roll of the cantos of the Inferno, she informed her that she would pay no bills till the following week, and that meanwhile the food was to be precisely as good as ever, and at a quarter the cost. Costanza threw up her hands. Next week, proceeded Mrs. Fisher unmoved, if she found this had been so she would pay the whole. Otherwise—she paused; for what she would do otherwise she did not know herself. But she paused and looked impenetrable, majestic and menacing, and Costanza was cowed.

Then Mrs. Fisher, having dismissed her with a gesture, went in search of Lady Caroline to complain. She had been under the impression that Lady Caroline ordered the meals and therefore was responsible for the prices, but now it appeared that the cook had been left to do exactly as she pleased ever since they got there, which of course was simply disgraceful. Scrap was not in her bedroom, but the room, on Mrs. Fisher's opening the door, for she suspected her of being in it and only pretending not to hear the knock, was still flowerlike from her presence. "Scent," sniffed Mrs. Fisher, shutting it again; and she wished Carlyle could have had five minutes' straight talk with this young woman. And yet—perhaps even he— She went downstairs to go into the garden in search of her, and in the hall encountered Mr. Wilkins. He had his hat on, and was lighting a cigar. Indulgent as Mrs. Fisher felt towards Mr. Wilkins, and peculiarly and even mystically related after the previous morning's encounter, she yet could not like a cigar in the house. Out of doors she endured it, but it was not necessary, when out of doors was such a big place, to indulge the habit indoors. Even Mr. Fisher, who had been, she should say, a man originally tenacious of habits, had quite soon after marriage got out of this one. However, Mr. Wilkins, snatching off his hat on seeing her, instantly threw the cigar away. He threw it into the water a great jar of arum lilies presumably contained, and Mrs. Fisher, aware of the value men attach to their newly-lit cigars, could not but be impressed by this immediate and magnificent amend honorable. But the cigar did not reach the water. It got caught in the lilies, and smoked on by itself among them, a strange and depraved-looking object. "Where are you going to, my prett—" began Mr. Wilkins, advancing towards Mrs. Fisher; but he broke off just in time. Was it morning spirits impelling him to address Mrs. Fisher in the terms of a nursery rhyme? He wasn't even aware that he knew the thing. Most strange. What could have put it, at such a moment, into his self-possessed head? He felt great respect for Mrs. Fisher, and would not for the world have insulted her by addressing her as a maid, pretty or otherwise. He wished to stand well with her. She was a woman of parts, and also, he suspected, of property. At breakfast they had been most pleasant together, and he had been struck by her apparent intimacy with well-known persons. Victorians, of course; but it was restful to talk about them after the strain of his brother-in-law's Georgian parties on Hampstead Heath. He and she were getting on famously, he felt. She already showed all the symptoms of presently wishing to become a client. Not for the world would he offend her. He turned a little cold at the narrowness of his escape. She had not, however, noticed. "You are going out," he said very politely, all readiness should she confirm his assumption to accompany her. "I want to find Lady Caroline," said Mrs. Fisher, going towards the glass door leading into the top garden. "An agreeable quest," remarked Mr. Wilkins. "May I assist in the search? Allow me—" he added, opening the door for her. "She usually sits over in that corner behind the bushes," said Mrs. Fisher. "And I don't know about it being an agreeable quest. She has been letting the bills run up in the most terrible fashion, and needs a good scolding." "Lady Caroline?" said Mr. Wilkins, unable to follow such an attitude. "What has Lady Caroline, if I may inquire, to do with the bills here?" "The housekeeping was left to her, and as we all share alike it ought to have been a matter of honour with her—" "But—Lady Caroline housekeeping for the party here? A party which includes my wife? My dear lady, you render me speechless. Do you not know she is the daughter of the Droitwiches?" "Oh, is that who she is," said Mrs. Fisher, scrunching heavily over the pebbles towards the hidden corner. "Well, that accounts for it. The muddle that man Droitwich made in his department in the war was a national scandal. It amounted to misappropriation of the public funds." "But it is impossible, I assure you, to expect the daughter of the Droitwiches—" began Mr. Wilkins earnestly. "The Droitwiches," interrupted Mrs. Fisher, "are neither here nor there. Duties undertaken should be performed. I don't intend my money to be squandered for the sake of any Droitwiches." A headstrong old lady. Perhaps not so easy to deal with as he had hoped. But how wealthy. Only the consciousness of great wealth would make her snap her fingers in this manner at the Droitwiches. Lotty, on being questioned, had been vague about her circumstances, and had described her house as a mausoleum with gold-fish swimming about in it; but now he was sure she was more than very well off. Still, he wished he had not joined her at this moment, for he had no sort of desire to be present at such a spectacle as the scolding of Lady Caroline Dester. Again, however, he was reckoning without Scrap. Whatever she felt when she looked up and beheld Mr. Wilkins discovering her corner on the very first morning, nothing but angelicness appeared on her face. She took her feet off the parapet on Mrs. Fisher's sitting down on it, and listening gravely to her opening remarks as to her not having any money to fling about in reckless and uncontrolled household expenditure, interrupted her flow by pulling one of the cushions from behind her head and offering it to her. "Sit on this," said Scrap, holding it out. "You'll be more comfortable." Mr. Wilkins leapt to relieve her of it. "Oh, thanks," said Mrs. Fisher, interrupted. It was difficult to get into the swing again. Mr. Wilkins inserted the cushion solicitously between the slightly raised Mrs. Fisher and the stone of the parapet, and again she had to say "Thanks." It was interrupted. Besides, Lady Caroline said nothing in her defence; she only looked at her, and listened with the face of an attentive angel. It seemed to Mr. Wilkins that it must be difficult to scold a Dester who looked like that and so exquisitely said nothing. Mrs. Fisher, he was glad to see, gradually found it difficult herself, for her severity slackened, and she ended by saying lamely, "You ought to have told me you were not doing it." "I didn't know you thought I was," said the lovely voice. "I would now like to know," said Mrs. Fisher, "what you propose to do for the rest of the time here." "Nothing," said Scrap, smiling. "Nothing? Do you mean to say—"

"If I may be allowed, ladies," interposed Mr. Wilkins in his suavest professional manner, "to make a suggestion"—they both looked at him, and remembering him as they first saw him felt indulgent—"I would advise you not to spoil a delightful holiday with worries over housekeeping." "Exactly," said Mrs. Fisher. "It is what I intend to avoid." "Most sensible," said Mr. Wilkins. "Why not, then," he continued, "allow the cook—an excellent cook, by the way—so much a head per diem"—Mr. Wilkins knew what was necessary in Latin—"and tell her that for this sum she must cater for you, and not only cater but cater as well as ever? One could easily reckon it out. The charges of a moderate hotel, for instance, would do as a basis, halved, or perhaps even quartered." "And this week that has just passed?" asked Mrs. Fisher. "The terrible bills of this first week? What about them?" "They shall be my present to San Salvatore," said Scrap, who didn't like the idea of Lotty's nest-egg being reduced so much beyond what she was prepared for. There was a silence. The ground was cut from under Mrs. Fisher's feet. "Of course if you choose to throw your money about—" she said at last, disapproving but immensely relieved, while Mr. Wilkins was rapt in the contemplation of the precious qualities of blue blood. This readiness, for instance, not to trouble about money, this free-handedness—it was not only what one admired in others, admired in others perhaps more than anything else, but it was extraordinarily useful to the professional classes. When met with it should be encouraged by warmth of reception. Mrs. Fisher was not warm. She accepted—from which he deduced that with her wealth went closeness—but she accepted grudgingly. Presents were presents, and one did not look them in this manner in the mouth, he felt; and if Lady Caroline found her pleasure in presenting his wife and Mrs. Fisher with their entire food for a week, it was their part to accept gracefully. One should not discourage gifts. On behalf of his wife, then, Mr. Wilkins expressed what she would wish to express, and remarking to Lady Caroline—with a touch of lightness, for so should gifts be accepted in order to avoid embarrassing the donor—that she had in that case been his wife's hostess since her arrival, he turned almost gaily to Mrs. Fisher and pointed out that she and his wife must now jointly write Lady Caroline the customary letter of thanks for hospitality. "A Collins," said Mr. Wilkins, who knew what was necessary in literature. "I prefer the name Collins for such a letter to either that of Board and Lodging or Bread and Butter. Let us call it a Collins." Scrap smiled, and held out her cigarette case. Mrs. Fisher could not help being mollified. A way out of waste was going to be found, thanks to Mr. Wilkins, and she hated waste quite as much as having to pay for it; also a way was found out of housekeeping. For a moment she had thought that if everybody tried to force her into housekeeping on her brief holiday by their own indifference (Lady Caroline), or inability to speak Italian (the other two), she would have to send for Kate Lumley after all. Kate could do it. Kate and she had learnt Italian together. Kate would only be allowed to come on condition that she did do it. But this was much better, this way of Mr. Wilkins's. Really a most superior man. There was nothing like an intelligent, not too young man for profitable and pleasurable companionship. And when she got up, the business for which she had come being settled, and said she now intended to take a little stroll before lunch, Mr. Wilkins did not stay with Lady Caroline, as most of the men she had known would, she was afraid, have wanted to—he asked to be permitted to go and stroll with her; so that he evidently definitely preferred conversation to faces. A sensible, companionable man. A clever, well-read man. A man of the world. A man. She was very glad indeed she had not written to Kate the other day. What did she want with Kate? She had found a better companion.

But Mr. Wilkins did not go with Mrs. Fisher because of her conversation, but because, when she got up and he got up because she got up, intending merely to bow her out of the recess, Lady Caroline had put her feet up on the parapet again, and arranging her head sideways in the cushions had shut her eyes. The daughter of the Droitwiches desired to go to sleep. It was not for him, by remaining, to prevent her.

The second week begins with complete harmony among the guests. Mr. Wilkins arrives at San Salvatore and rather than disturbing the peace as some had feared, he fits in seamlessly. His determination to please results in universal approval, creating an atmosphere of contentment across the party.

Mr. Wilkins demonstrates remarkable amiability toward his wife Lotty, not only in public but also in private. He feels genuinely fond of her for introducing him to Lady Caroline, reflecting that there must be more to her than he originally supposed. This newfound appreciation leads to mutual affection between the couple.

The relationship between Mr. Wilkins and Lotty develops into what the narrative describes as "a highly virtuous circle." As he treats her as someone very nice, she expands and becomes genuinely pleasant. His affection in turn makes him equally agreeable, creating a positive cyclical pattern that benefits both partners.

In the small bedroom with its space constraints, Mr. Wilkins and Lotty engage in affectionate "combats de générosité" over the washstand. Each attempts to avoid being in the other's way, with these generous gestures leaving them increasingly pleased with one another. He refrains from using the bathroom and instead takes daily swims in the sea.

Rose and Scrap begin to believe in the transformative power of San Salvatore's atmosphere after witnessing Mr. Wilkins's transformation. Both women feel a similar working going on within themselves—Scrap experiences nicer thoughts about family, while Rose's yearnings gain purpose and direction.

Rose begins reconsidering her rigid attitudes toward her husband Frederick. She recognizes her previous strait-lacedness and austere absorption in good works as potentially foolish. She acknowledges that she frightened love away and that this cannot have been good, wondering if the beauty of San Salvatore might restore their relationship.

Rose determines she must write to Frederick to invite him to San Salvatore, reasoning that without writing there is no chance of his coming. She rises with determination to write immediately but hesitates when imagining he might not answer, sitting back down to think further. These hesitations consume most of her second week.

Rose's deliberations are described as "bosom thoughts" rather than intellectual ones—they lodge in her heart where she aches and feels lonely. When her courage fails her, she looks at Mr. Wilkins's transformation for renewed inspiration, drawing hope from witnessing how miracles can happen at San Salvatore.

Mrs. Fisher's restlessness intensifies significantly during the second week. She becomes unable to sit in her private sitting-room for even ten minutes, constantly moving and wandering. Her physical restlessness is accompanied by a growing sense of unease about her own behavior and state of mind.

Mrs. Fisher experiences a curious sensation of "rising sap," which she recalls from childhood when lilacs seemed to rush into blossom overnight. This sensation of potential bursting forth strikes her as absurd at her age, yet grows stronger daily. She feels as if she might "crop out all green" at any moment.

Mrs. Fisher battles against the unseemly sensation of feeling young again, sternly reminding herself of what dignity demands. She reflects that while development should continue with dignity at any age, she would intensely dislike "unripening" or going back to something green. She realizes this is exactly what she feels on the brink of doing.

Mrs. Fisher is alarmed when the expression "dusty old things" comes to mind regarding her maids. She traces this to possibly having heard it from Mrs. Wilkins, finding it both serious and disgusting that such levity should penetrate her mind. She considers her respectably elderly household appropriate, distinct from "dusty old things."

Mrs. Fisher reflects on how "evil communications corrupt good manners," likely quoting Ruskin. She worries that merely hearing Mrs. Wilkins's vulgar and indelicate communications, even when she avoids listening, has been spoiling her own mental manners and may soon affect her speech itself.

Mr. Wilkins inquires of Scrap whether anything is troubling Mrs. Fisher, offering his assistance as a lawyer "on the spot." He believes ladies with matters on their minds are exactly what he wants, and observes Mrs. Fisher's behavior as showing definite promise of being someone with concerns he could address.

Scrap has discovered that Mr. Wilkins neither admires her inappropriately nor would dare to. His respectfulness allows her to direct his movements with barely a raised eyelash. She takes pleasure in finding him varied exits from her corner each morning after he arranges her cushions, having established this as his daily privilege.

Mr. Wilkins aims to be "a treasure" whom the ladies trust, hoping they will turn to him for advice when trouble arises. Scrap reflects that he is one of those rare men who never look at women from a predatory angle. His presence simplifies relations within the party, making him "simply ideal."

The second week sees San Salvatore's garden in glorious bloom. Poet'eyed narcissi give way to wild rose-colored gladiolus, while white pinks fill the air with their smoky-sweet fragrance and a previously unnoticed purple lilac bush bursts into glory. Spring and summer coexist in remarkable abundance, with even primroses found in higher, colder corners.

On the first day of the third week Rose wrote to Frederick. In case she should hesitate and not post the letter, she gave it to Domenico to post, knowing that even if Frederick started immediately upon receiving it, he couldn't arrive for five days due to packing and passport requirements.

Having sent the letter, Rose immediately wished she hadn't. She was certain he wouldn't come or bother to answer, and that if he did respond, it would only be with false excuses about being too busy. She feared the letter would leave her more unhappy than before.

Rose contemplated how idle time had led her to resurrect Frederick in her mind. She regretted coming on holiday, believing work was her salvation—something that kept her steady and maintained her values. At home in Hampstead, absorbed and busy, she had managed to move past Frederick, thinking of him only with gentle melancholy like someone long dead. This place and its idleness had thrown her back to a state she had carefully escaped years ago.

Rose worried that if Frederick came, she would only bore him. She had realized early on that this was likely what had kept him away before. After their long estrangement, she doubted she could hold his interest and would likely stand before him like a tongue-tied idiot. She dreaded the position of having to essentially plead: Please wait a little—please don't be impatient—I think perhaps I shan't be a bore presently. A thousand times a day she wished she had left Frederick alone.

Lotty, who had asked every evening whether Rose had sent her letter, exclaimed with delight when the answer was finally yes. She threw her arms around Rose and declared that now they would be completely happy. Rose's expression, however, became increasingly troubled.

Mr. Wilkins, wanting to discover what was troubling Rose, strolled about in his Panama hat and began encountering her accidentally at various spots. When she chose a new location to ensure solitude, he soon appeared again, saying they were destined to meet. Rose recognized she had misjudged him in Hampstead and that San Salvatore had brought out his true nature. While she was grateful he didn't find her boring, she found him tedious herself—a preferable situation to being the tedious one. Rose noted that without her prayers, she was being assailed by unfamiliar weaknesses: vanity, sensitiveness, irritability, and pugnaciousness. She wondered if San Salvatore was having opposite effects on her, the same sun that ripened Mr. Wilkins making her go sour.

The next morning, while Mr. Wilkins lingered over breakfast with Mrs. Fisher, Rose went down to the rocks by the water's edge where she and Lotty had sat on their first day. Frederick should have received her letter by then. If he was like Mr. Wilkins, she might receive a telegram from him. She tried to silence this hope by jeering at it. Still—if Mr. Wilkins had telegraphed, why not Frederick? She thought longingly of being privately important to just one other person. She sat beneath the pine-tree all morning, refusing to leave before lunch to give the telegram time to arrive. Nobody came near her, and the hours seemed enormous.

Meanwhile, Scrap, egged on by Lotty, had gone with her into the hills with sandwiches until evening. Mr. Wilkins, on Lady Caroline's advice, stayed with Mrs. Fisher to cheer her solitude. He left her around eleven to look for Mrs. Arbuthnot, then returned mopping his forehead because Mrs. Arbuthnot had hidden successfully. He noticed there was a telegram for her but didn't know where she was. When he asked Mrs. Fisher if they should open it, she firmly disapproved of tampering with correspondence. Mr. Wilkins was shocked by the word but respected her opinion. He had been trying for a week to get Mrs. Fisher to confide in him, yet she remained secretive about what was clearly worrying her.

When Mr. Wilkins asked Lotty if she could shed light on Mrs. Fisher's troubles, Lotty said simply that she hadn't got love. Mr. Wilkins was scandalized by the suggestion at her age, but Lotty clarified she meant any love. Earlier that morning, Mr. Wilkins had asked Lotty what was wrong with Mrs. Arbuthnot, who had also remained persistently retiring. Lotty said she wanted her husband. Mr. Wilkins found this very proper, and Lotty agreed that one does. When he asked "Does one?" she confirmed that of course one does. Much pleased with her, he pinched her ear, though it was still early in the day when such caresses were sluggish.

Just before half-past twelve, Rose came slowly up through the pergola and between the camellias on the old stone steps. The periwinkles that had flowed down them were gone, replaced by bushes bearing flowers in pink, white, red, and striped varieties. She fingered and smelt them one after another to delay facing disappointment. As long as she hadn't confirmed the telegram wasn't there, she could still hope. Mr. Wilkins, standing in the doorway, pointed out that there was no smell in a camellia. Rose startled at his voice. He told her a telegram had come for her. Her face went slowly white as she tore it open, hoping for news from Frederick.

Thomas Briggs was at that very moment approaching San Salvatore in a fly between Mezzago and Castagneto, hoping the dark-eyed lady would understand that all he wanted was to see her, not to check on his house. He felt an owner of delicacy shouldn't intrude on a tenant. But he had been thinking so much of her since that day in London. Her pretty name, Rose Arbuthnot, and such a pretty creature—mild, milky, mothery in the best sense. He longed to see her in his house, using his things, sitting in his chairs, drinking from his cups. He wondered if she had seen the portrait of herself on the stairs and hoped she liked it. He would explain to her about the painting, how it captured the exact moulding of her eyebrows and the slight hollow of her cheek.

He had the fly wait in Castagneto and crossed the piazza, greeted by children and dogs who knew him. Walking quickly up the zigzag path—for he was an active young man not much more than thirty—he pulled the ancient chain that rang the bell and waited decorously on the proper side of the open door. Francesca greeted him volubly, assuring him everything was in perfect order. He cut her short and asked her to take his card to her mistress. When she asked which mistress, he repeated the question in confusion. Francesca pointed out there were four tenants, and he recovered himself, telling her to take it to all of them. Coffee was being drunk in the top garden by Mrs. Fisher and Mr. Wilkins, while Mrs. Arbuthnot had disappeared after eating nothing and being silent during lunch.

While Francesca took his card into the garden, Mr. Briggs stood examining the Madonna portrait on the staircase—painted by an unknown early Italian painter he had picked up at Orvieto. The likeness to his tenant was remarkable. He was pretty sure her hair grew off her forehead just like that in the painting, and the expression of the eyes, grave and sweet, was exactly the same. He rejoiced to think he would always have her portrait. Rose appeared coming down the stairs, dressed in white, and he watched her with the utmost eager interest. When she reached the level of her portrait, he said it was extraordinary and asked her to stand still a moment. He began making swift passes with his hand over the picture, measuring and comparing her face to it. She asked if he had come to compare her with her original, and when he said she did see how alike they were, she said she hadn't known she looked so solemn. He corrected her that she had a minute ago, then noticed her outstretched hand, laughed, shook it, and flushed to the roots of his fair hair.

Francesca returned to say Mrs. Fisher would be pleased to see him. When Mr. Briggs asked who Mrs. Fisher was, Rose explained she was one of the four sharing his house. He expressed dismay that Rose Arbuthnot had to afford anything and should stay as his guest. Rose said Mrs. Fisher was having coffee in the top garden and offered to take him to her. He didn't want to go—he noticed Rose had her hat on and asked if he could come too, immensely wanting to be shown around by her. He spoke Italian fluently and told Francesca to go tell Mrs. Fisher that he had encountered his old friend the Signora Arbuthnot and would present himself later. He invited Rose to tea, but she smiled that it was his house. He insisted it was hers until Monday week.

Rose agreed to tea, and Mr. Briggs eagerly asked her to come and show him all the views. It was plain, even to the self-depreciatory Rose, that she did not bore Mr. Briggs.

They had a very pleasant walk, with a great deal of sitting down in warm, thyme-fragrant corners. If anything could have helped Rose recover from the bitter disappointment of the morning, it would have been the company and conversation of Mr. Briggs. He did help her to recover, and the same process took place as that which Lotty had undergone with her husband—the more Mr. Briggs thought Rose charming, the more charming she became.

Briggs was a man incapable of concealments, who never lost time if he could help it. They had not got to the end of the headland where the lighthouse is—Briggs asked her to show him the lighthouse, because the path to it was wide enough for two to walk abreast and fairly level—before he had told her of the impression she had made on him in London. Since even the most religious, sober women like to know they have made an impression, particularly the kind that has nothing to do with character or merits, Rose was pleased. Being pleased, she smiled. Smiling, she was more attractive than ever. Colour came into her cheeks, and brightness into her eyes. She heard herself saying things that really sounded quite interesting and even amusing. If Frederick were listening now, she thought, perhaps he would see that she couldn't after all be such a hopeless bore. And indeed Mr. Briggs seemed very much interested. He wanted to hear all about everything she had been doing from the moment she got there. He asked her if she had seen this, that, and the other in the house, what she liked best, which room she had, if she were comfortable, if Francesca was behaving, if Domenico took care of her, and whether she didn't enjoy using the yellow sitting-room. Rose was ashamed how little she had noticed in the house, and how few of the things he spoke of as curious or beautiful in it she had even seen. Swamped in thoughts of Frederick, she appeared to have lived in San Salvatore blindly, and more than half the time had gone, and what had been the good of it? She might just as well have been sitting hankering on Hampstead Heath.

Briggs walked by her side along his paths that were yet so happily for the moment her paths, and felt all the innocent glows of family life. He was an orphan and an only child, and had a warm, domestic disposition. He would have adored a sister and spoilt a mother, and was beginning at this time to think of marrying. He had been very happy with his various loves, each of whom, contrary to the usual experience, turned ultimately into his devoted friend, and he was fond of children and thought he had perhaps now got to the age of settling if he did not wish to be too old by the time his eldest son was twenty. San Salvatore had latterly seemed a little forlorn. He fancied it echoed when he walked about it. He had felt lonely there; so lonely that he had preferred this year to miss out a spring and let it. It wanted a wife in it. It wanted that final touch of warmth and beauty, for he never thought of his wife except in terms of warmth and beauty—she would of course be beautiful and kind. It amused him how much in love with this vague wife he was already.

At such a rate was he making friends with the lady with the sweet name as he walked along the path towards the lighthouse, that he was sure presently he would be telling her everything about himself and his past doings and his future hopes, and the thought of such a swiftly developing confidence made him laugh. "Why are you laughing?" she asked, looking at him and smiling. "It's so like coming home," he said. "But it is coming home for you to come here." "I mean really like coming home. To one's—one's family. I never had a family. I'm an orphan." "Oh, are you?" said Rose with the proper sympathy. "I hope you've not been one very long. No—I mean I hope you have been one very long. No—I don't know what I mean, except that I'm sorry." He laughed again. "Oh I'm used to it. I haven't anybody. No sisters or brothers." "Then you're an only child," she observed intelligently. "Yes. And there's something about you that's exactly my idea of a—of a family." She was amused. "So—cosy," he said, looking at her and searching for a word.

"You're not going to pretend San Salvatore is like me?" "Indeed I do pretend it. Surely you admit that it is beautiful?" He said several things like that. She enjoyed her walk. She could not recollect any walk so pleasant since her courting days. She came back to tea, bringing Mr. Briggs, and looking quite different, Mr. Wilkins noticed, from what she had looked till then. Trouble here, trouble here, thought Mr. Wilkins, mentally rubbing his professional hands. He could see himself being called in presently to advise. On the one hand there was Arbuthnot, on the other hand here was Briggs. Trouble brewing, trouble sooner or later. But why had Briggs's telegram acted on the lady like a blow? If she had turned pale from excess of joy, then trouble was nearer than he had supposed. She was not pale now; she was more like her name than he had yet seen her.

"You wouldn't think so if you saw my house in Hampstead," she said, a vision of that austere and hard-seated dwelling presenting itself to her mind, with nothing soft in it except the shunned and neglected Du Barri sofa. No wonder, she thought, for a moment clear-brained, that Frederick avoided it. There was nothing cosy about his family. "I don't believe any place you lived in could be anything but exactly like you," he said. "You're not going to pretend San Salvatore is like me?" "Indeed I do pretend it. Surely you admit that it is beautiful?" He said several things like that. She enjoyed her walk. She could not recollect any walk so pleasant since her courting days.

And Mr. Wilkins, invigorated by these thoughts, his career being very precious to him, proceeded to assist in doing the honours to Mr. Briggs, both in his quality of sharer in the temporary ownership of San Salvatore and of probable helper out of difficulties, with great hospitality, and pointed out the various features of the place to him, and led him to the parapet and showed him Mezzago across the bay. Trouble here, trouble here, thought Mr. Wilkins, mentally rubbing his professional hands. He could see himself being called in presently to advise. On the one hand there was Arbuthnot, on the other hand here was Briggs. Trouble brewing, trouble sooner or later. But why had Briggs's telegram acted on the lady like a blow? If she had turned pale from excess of joy, then trouble was nearer than he had supposed. "Trouble, trouble," thought Mr. Wilkins at this, again mentally rubbing his hands. "Well, I'm their man."

Mrs. Fisher too was gracious. This was this young man's house. He was a man of property. She liked property, and she liked men of property. Also there seemed a peculiar merit in being a man of property so young. Inheritance, of course; and inheritance was more respectable than acquisition. It did indicate fathers; and in an age where most people appeared neither to have them nor to want them she liked this too. Accordingly it was a pleasant meal, with everybody amiable and pleased. Briggs thought Mrs. Fisher a dear old lady, and showed he thought so, and again the magic worked, and she became a dear old lady. She developed benignity with him, and a kind of benignity which was almost playful—actually before tea was over including in some observation she made him the words "My dear boy."

Strange words in Mrs. Fisher's mouth. It is doubtful whether in her life she had used them before. Rose was astonished. How nice people really were. When would she leave off making mistakes about them? She hadn't suspected this side of Mrs. Fisher, and she began to wonder whether those other sides of her with which alone she was acquainted had not perhaps after all been the effect of her own militant and irritating behaviour. How very horrid she had been. She had behaved unpardonably. Her penitence showed itself in a shy and deferential solicitude towards Mrs. Fisher which made the observant Briggs think her still more angelic, and wish for a moment that he were an old lady himself in order to be behaved to by Rose Arbuthnot just like that. There was evidently no end, he thought, to the things she could do sweetly. He would even not mind taking medicine, really nasty medicine, if it were Rose Arbuthnot bending over him with the dose. She felt his bright blue eyes, the brighter because he was so sunburnt, fixed on her with a twinkle in them, and smiling asked him what he was thinking about. But he couldn't very well tell her that, he said; and added, "Some day."

What Mrs. Fisher was thinking was how much surprised they would be if she told them of her very odd and exciting sensation of going to come out all over buds. They would think she was an extremely silly old woman, and so would she have thought as lately as two days ago; but the bud idea was becoming familiar to her, she was more apprivoisée now, as dear Matthew Arnold used to say, and though it would undoubtedly be best if one's appearance and sensations matched, yet supposing they did not—and one couldn't have everything—was it not better to feel young somewhere rather than old everywhere? Time enough to be old everywhere again, inside as well as out, when she got back to her sarcophagus in Prince of Wales Terrace. Yet it is probable that without the arrival of Briggs Mrs. Fisher would have gone on secretly fermenting in her shell. The others only knew her as severe. It would have been more than her dignity could bear suddenly to relax—especially towards the three young women. But now came the stranger Briggs, a stranger who at once took to her as no young man had taken to her in her life, and it was the coming of Briggs and his real and manifest appreciation—for just such a grandmother, thought Briggs, hungry for home life and its concomitants, would he have liked to have had—that released Mrs. Fisher from her shell; and here she was at last, as Lotty had predicted, pleased, good-humoured and benevolent.

Rose felt very penitent when she saw Mrs. Fisher beneath her eyes blossoming out into real amiability the moment some one came along who was charming to her, and she could have sunk into the ground with shame when Mrs. Fisher presently laughed, and she realised by the shock it gave her that the sound was entirely new. Not once before had she or any one else there heard Mrs. Fisher laugh. What an indictment of the lot of them! For they had all laughed, the others, some more and some less, at one time or another since their arrival, and only Mrs. Fisher had not. Clearly, since she could enjoy herself as she was now enjoying herself, she had not enjoyed herself before. Nobody had cared whether she did or not, except perhaps Lotty. Yes; Lotty had cared, and had wanted her to be happy; but Lotty seemed to produce a bad effect on Mrs. Fisher, while as for Rose herself she had never been with her for five minutes without wanting, really wanting, to provoke and oppose her. How very horrid she had been. She had behaved unpardonably. Her penitence showed itself in a shy and deferential solicitude towards Mrs. Fisher which made the observant Briggs think her still more angelic.

Lotty, coming back half an hour later from her picnic, and following the sound of voices into the top garden in the hope of still finding tea, saw at once what had happened, for Mrs. Fisher at that very moment was laughing. "She's burst her cocoon," thought Lotty; and swift as she was in all her movements, and impulsive, and also without any sense of propriety to worry and delay her, she bent over the back of Mrs. Fisher's chair and kissed her. "Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Fisher, starting violently, for such a thing had not happened to her since Mr. Fisher's earlier days, and then only gingerly. This kiss was a real kiss, and rested on Mrs. Fisher's cheek a moment with a strange, soft sweetness.

When she saw whose it was, a deep flush spread over her face. Mrs. Wilkins kissing her and the kiss feeling so affectionate. Even if she had wanted to she could not in the presence of the appreciative Mr. Briggs resume her cast-off severity and begin rebuking again; but she did not want to. Was it possible Mrs. Wilkins liked her—had liked her all this time, while she had been so much disliking her herself? A queer little trickle of warmth filtered through the frozen defences of Mrs. Fisher's heart. Somebody young kissing her—somebody young wanting to kiss her. Very much flushed, she watched the strange creature, apparently quite unconscious she had done anything extraordinary, shaking hands with Mr. Briggs, on her husband's introducing him, and immediately embarking on the friendliest conversation with him, exactly as if she had known him all her life. What a strange creature; what a very strange creature. It was natural, she being so strange, that one should have, perhaps, misjudged her.

"I'm sure you want some tea," said Briggs with eager hospitality to Lotty. He thought her delightful—freckles, picnic-untidiness and all. Just such a sister would he— "This is cold," he said, feeling the teapot. "I'll tell Francesca to make you some fresh—" He broke off and blushed. "Aren't I forgetting myself," he said, laughing and looking round at them. "Very natural, very natural," Mr. Wilkins reassured him. "I'll go and tell Francesca," said Rose, getting up. "No, no," said Briggs. "Don't go away." And he put his hands to his mouth and shouted. "Francesca!" shouted Briggs. She came running. No summons in their experience had been answered by her with such celerity.

"Make fresh tea," ordered Briggs in Italian. "Quick—quick—" And then remembering himself he blushed again, and begged everybody's pardon. "Very natural, very natural," Mr. Wilkins reassured him. Briggs then explained to Lotty what he had explained twice already, once to Rose and once to the other two, that he was on his way to Rome and thought he would get out at Mezzago and just look in to see if they were comfortable and continue his journey the next day, staying the night in an hotel at Mezzago. "But how ridiculous," said Lotty. "Of course you must stay here. It's your house. There's Kate Lumley's room," she added, turning to Mrs. Fisher. "You wouldn't mind Mr. Briggs having it for one night? Kate Lumley isn't in it, you know," she said turning to Briggs again and laughing. And Mrs. Fisher to her immense surprise laughed too. She knew that at any other time this remark would have struck her as excessively unseemly, and yet now she only thought it funny.

No indeed, she assured Briggs, Kate Lumley was not in that room. Very fortunately, for she was an excessively wide person and the room was excessively narrow. Kate Lumley might get into it, but that was about all. Once in, she would fit it so tightly that probably she would never be able to get out again. It was entirely at Mr. Briggs's disposal, and she hoped he would do nothing so absurd as go to an hotel—he, the owner of the whole place. Rose listened to this speech wide-eyed with amazement. Mrs. Fisher laughed very much as she made it. Lotty laughed very much too, and at the end of it bent down and kissed her again—kissed her several times. "So you see, my dear boy," said Mrs. Fisher, "you must stay here and give us all a great deal of pleasure." "A great deal indeed," corroborated Mr. Wilkins heartily. "A very great deal," repeated Mrs. Fisher, looking exactly like a pleased mother. "Do," said Rose, on Briggs's turning inquiringly to her. "How kind of you all," he said, his face broad with smiles. "I'd love to be a guest here. What a new sensation. And with three such—"

He broke off and looked round. "I say," he asked, "oughtn't I to have a fourth hostess? Francesca said she had four mistresses." "Yes. There's Lady Caroline," said Lotty. "Then hadn't we better find out first if she invites me too?" "Oh, but she's sure—" began Lotty. "The daughter of the Droitwiches, Briggs," said Mr. Wilkins, "is not likely to be wanting in the proper hospitable impulses." "The daughter of the—" repeated Briggs; but he stopped dead, for there in the doorway was the daughter of the Droitwiches herself; or rather, coming towards him out of the dark doorway into the brightness of the sunset, was that which he had not in his life yet seen but only dreamed of, his ideal of absolute loveliness.

"Yes. There's Lady Caroline," said Lotty. "Then hadn't we better find out first if she invites me too?" "Oh, but she's sure—" began Lotty. "The daughter of the Droitwiches, Briggs," said Mr. Wilkins, "is not likely to be wanting in the proper hospitable impulses." "The daughter of the—" repeated Briggs; but he stopped dead, for there in the doorway was the daughter of the Droitwiches herself; or rather, coming towards him out of the dark doorway into the brightness of the sunset, was that which he had not in his life yet seen but only dreamed of, his ideal of absolute loveliness.

"The daughter of the Droitwiches, Briggs," said Mr. Wilkins, "is not likely to be wanting in the proper hospitable impulses." "The daughter of the—" repeated Briggs; but he stopped dead, for there in the doorway was the daughter of the Droitwiches herself; or rather, coming towards him out of the dark doorway into the brightness of the sunset, was that which he had not in his life yet seen but only dreamed of, his ideal of absolute loveliness.

When Scrap says "How do you do" upon being presented to Briggs, he becomes completely undone. The formerly cheerful, friendly young man transforms into someone silent and solemn, with little beads on his temples. He becomes clumsy, dropping the teaspoon and mishandling the macaroons until one rolls onto the ground. His eyes cannot look away from her enchanting face.

A deep melancholy settles over Scrap as she recognizes all the symptoms of "the incipient grabber" in Briggs. She remembers that Kate Lumley was supposed to arrive, and she catches at this as a straw, wondering if there is room. When told that Kate won't arrive that day, Scrap reflects that once let in, Briggs will come to see her in London and haunt places she frequents. Her experienced eye tells her he has the makings of a "passionately persistent grabber."

Mr. Wilkins explains to Lady Caroline that Briggs is the owner of San Salvatore, passing through on his way to Rome. The other three ladies have already invited him to spend the night in what is essentially his own house rather than an hotel. Lady Caroline, as the fourth hostess, must approve this invitation. Scrap joins in with what seems to Briggs "the most divine cordiality," though she is merely resigned to his presence.

Mr. Wilkins observes Briggs's sudden silence and deduces that trouble is coming. If any understanding existed between Briggs and Mrs. Arbuthnot, there will now be complications. Briggs, impelled by his passions and Scrap's beauty, will aspire to the daughter of the Droitwiches. She will properly repel him, leaving Mrs. Arbuthnot upset. When Arbuthnot arrives, he will find his wife in enigmatic tears and meet with icy reserve. Wilkins decides he is "their man" for such troubles.

Mrs. Fisher asks where Briggs's things are, and he starts, having been so absorbed in Scrap that he forgot everything else. His luggage is in the station cloakroom at Mezzago, so they send for Domenico to fetch it in the fly. Briggs, unable to take his eyes off Scrap, nearly knocks against several things in the hall—the corner of a bookcase, an ancient carved cupboard, and a table—shaking water from the flowers.

Mrs. Fisher reflects that the way one pretty face can turn a delightful man into an idiot is "past all patience." She goes in to order his room ready, regretting now that she pressed the poor boy to stay. She recalls how men, otherwise intelligent, flutter round the "impassive lighted candle of a pretty face" like foolish moths. Almost she lays a motherly hand on Briggs's fair head as she passes, thinking "Poor boy."

Scrap finishes her cigarette and goes indoors. She would have liked to stay in the garden longer to watch the sunset and lights appearing in the village, but if she did, Mr. Briggs would certainly follow her. The old familiar tyranny has begun again, and her holiday of peace and liberation is interrupted. She turns her back on the garden and goes toward the house without a look or word. Briggs, realizing her intention, leaps up, snatches chairs out of her way, kicks a footstool aside, and hurries to hold the door open for her.

From her window, Scrap watches Briggs in the garden. She sees Lotty and Rose sitting on the parapet, and Mr. Wilkins buttonholing Briggs, telling him the story of the oleander tree. Briggs listens with patience she thinks rather nice, considering it is his own father's story. Scrap reflects on how unfortunate it is that people become determined to get hold of and engulf other people. She wishes Briggs could be more like Lotty, who is complete in herself and respects others' completeness.

Scrap decides she cannot endure the tyranny and will go out anyway. While Mr. Wilkins holds Briggs's attention with the oleander story, she steals downstairs, takes a wrap, and escapes to the zigzag path. There she sits on one of the seats placed at each bend, feeling relieved. She can see the quiet water of the little harbour through the pine trunks, the lights coming out in houses across the way, and the green dusk splashed with rose-pink gladioluses and white daisies.

The footsteps on the zigzag path belong not to Briggs but to Mr. Ferdinand Arundel, a well-known writer of amusing memoirs whom Scrap has seen frequently in London. He has come because Lady Droitwich told him where Scrap was, and he happened to be passing through on his way to Rome. He looks ashamed and entreating, like a guilty but devoted dog. Scrap feels betrayed that her mother told him, though she recalls she has been amiable to him—or rather she does not dislike him. He seems jovial and simple, with the eyes of a nice dog.

Scrap realizes that Arundel cannot possibly give her the trouble an active young man like Mr. Briggs might. She decides to make the best of it and invite him to dinner, for he will serve as a temporary shelter from Mr. Briggs. She can hear news from him of her mother and friends, and his presence will put up a defensive barrier between herself and Briggs's approaches. She tells him dinner is at eight and he must come up and be fed.

Scrap tells Arundel she arranged with her mother not to write unless there was something special, wanting a month that was "perfectly blank." Arundel expresses shame at having interrupted her cure. Scrap assures him she is really very glad to see him and asks about her mother, whom Arundel last saw recently. The timing is perfect, for she knows Briggs is still up at the house, waiting and watching for her.

Arundel, desperate to remain with Scrap, discovers he knows little about her family beyond superficial encounters. To keep her engaged and near him, he begins inventing entertaining stories about her mother, Lady Droitwich. Starting with ordinary news, he soon makes up increasingly amusing anecdotes about things Lady Droitwich supposedly said and did. Scrap becomes captivated by these stories, laughing with wonder and affectionate pride in her mother, while Arundel attributes his own entertaining ideas to Lady Droitwich.

Suddenly remembering that dinner is in fifteen minutes, Scrap dashes away to dress. Arundel follows at a more leisurely pace to avoid overheating. Francesca meets him at the pergola and escorts him inside, showing him where to wash before placing him in the empty drawing room to cool by the crackling fire. From a deep window recess, Arundel gazes out at the distant lights of Mezzago.

The house settles into the hushed preparation before dinner, with all residents closeted in their rooms dressing. Briggs discards one failed tie after another. Scrap hurries into a black dress, hoping Mr. Briggs won't notice her in the dark attire. Mrs. Fisher adjusts her lace shawl with the brooch Ruskin gave her on her wedding—two pearl lilies on a blue enamel ribbon inscribed "Esto perpetua." Mr. Wilkins sits on the bed brushing his wife's hair, having grown more demonstrative over three weeks, while she inserts his studs into a fresh shirt.

After tea, Lotty expresses delight at the increased love pervading San Salvatore, even in one-sided form. She tells Rose that once Rose's husband arrives—perhaps tomorrow evening—they can enjoy glorious final days together before returning home refreshed. Lotty speculates that Caroline might grow fond of the young man Briggs, observing that "you have to get fond of people here." Rose contemplates this optimism, which has proven justified by Mr. Wilkins' transformation and Mrs. Fisher's emotional opening.

Rose determines that the first thing she will do upon returning home is confront Frederick about their relationship. Though she knows he never intentionally wounds her and lacks imagination, she recognizes their separate life has become unbearable frozen loneliness. She refuses to be afraid of wounding her soft heart any longer and demands to be loved and allowed to love.

Feeling exhilarated and glowing after Mr. Briggs' brief admiration, Rose dresses with care and considers placing a crimson camellia in her hair near her ear. The flower matches her mouth and appears attractively striking, but she ultimately removes it with a sigh, placing it in water instead. She reminds herself not to be frivolous and to think of the poor.

With ten minutes remaining before dinner, Rose ventures out to Mrs. Fisher's battlements to watch the moon rise. Passing the drawing room, she notices firelight through the open door and peeks inside. To her astonishment, she sees Frederick standing at the window in the farthest corner. Her blood rushes to her heart as she realizes the miracle—he has come to her.

Rose approaches her husband with her heart racing, uncertain whether to hope or fear. She moves silently toward him, unable to breathe, until she whispers his name. Frederick spins around in surprise, but Rose's arms are already around his neck, her cheek against his, murmuring that she always knew he would come.

Frederick encounters his wife Rose in an unexpected place. She clings to him affectionately, murmuring words of love and welcome—a stark contrast to their estranged years. Frederick is completely bewildered by her presence and warmth, unable to comprehend why she is here or why she has welcomed him so tenderly after their long separation.

Though bewildered, Frederick embraces Rose and begins kissing her tenderly. The intimacy feels curiously natural, as if no time has passed. He responds to her affection with growing warmth, unable to stop kissing her even as questions about her presence remain unanswered. Rose mentions his letter reaching him quickly and asks when he started his journey, revealing that she somehow knew he was coming.

Holding Rose close, Frederick experiences a profound sense of security. He no longer feels ashamed of his aging body, his weight, or his middle-aged appearance. With Rose, he is safe from judgment—she sees him only as her lover, just as he was in their youth. Her arms around his neck and her acceptance of him as he is now brings him profound relief.

The reunion allows Frederick to reclaim his youth through Rose's touch. He remembers their early years together—the dreams they shared, the plans they made, the poetry of their lives. He recalls the happy days and happier nights before their relationship became strained by her rigid principles and his controversial writings. Rose now gives him back the best part of his life, the part filled with visions and hopes.

Briggs enters before dinner and is shocked to find Frederick embracing Rose in the window. Believing Rose to be a widow, he is astonished to learn that this stranger is her husband. Briggs is deeply troubled by the intimate scene, seeing Rose as his "Madonna" who has forgotten herself. He awkwardly introduces himself while struggling to process this revelation.

The dinner party gathers as guests arrive in succession: Mrs. Fisher in evening lace, Mr. Wilkins immaculately dressed, Mrs. Wilkins, and others. The house is full, and Mrs. Fisher graciously welcomes Frederick as Rose's husband. However, Lady Caroline has not yet arrived, creating tension among those waiting for her.

Lady Caroline is late, causing mounting anxiety, particularly for Briggs, who is besotted with her. Questions arise about whether she heard the gong or will even come to dinner at all. Frederick grows increasingly nervous, dreading her arrival given the complications it will create for him.

An empty chair remains positioned next to Frederick at the dinner table—Lady Caroline's seat. Frederick is acutely aware that neither Rose nor Lady Caroline knows about the other woman's existence in his life. He feels unable to cope with the mounting complications and resolves only to drift with whatever unfolds.

Lady Caroline finally arrives, and Frederick prepares himself for the impending catastrophe. He realizes the absurdity and fantasy of his situation—being caught between two women with secrets that could destroy everything. He wipes his moustache repeatedly, his hand unsteady, as he waits for the moment of reckoning.

Frederick must maintain a facade of innocence while seated at the dinner table. He feels the intelligent eyes of the young woman opposite him constantly observing him. Rose's eyes rest on him beautifully and unquestioningly, like a benediction, but he wonders how long that trust will last once Lady Caroline is present and the complications become clear.

The various guests take their seats at the table in what feels like an endless procession. Mrs. Fisher presides at the head, Rose takes her place opposite her former adversary, and Frederick is seated next to Rose. The sandy young woman sits opposite Frederick, positioning herself strategically in the dining room arrangement.

Lotty enthusiastically greets Frederick's arrival, reminding Rose that she had told her this would happen. When Lady Caroline enters, Lotty eagerly leans across and announces to Lady Caroline how quickly Rose's husband has arrived, attempting to get the first word in before anyone else can speak.

Mr. Wilkins demonstrates exceptional hospitality, gripping Frederick's hand firmly and welcoming him with hearty enthusiasm. His voice is so commanding that Wilkins seems destined for a bishopric. He explains to Briggs in long, clear sentences that they must have arrived on the same train, proving his point definitively. Mrs. Fisher comments that the house will finally be "getting our money's worth" with a complete party.

The sandy young woman, Lotty, sits opposite Frederick and observes him intently. When Frederick asks who the man with the commanding voice is, she reveals he is her husband. She comments that this place is "a tub of love" and suggests it helps people understand things. Frederick listens to her words with growing bewilderment and interest.

Lady Caroline, known as "Scrap," handles the situation with remarkable composure. She slips into the chair Briggs holds for her and, despite Lotty's attempt to announce Frederick's arrival, shows not even a shadow of surprise. She extends her hand to Frederick with an angelic smile and playfully comments on being late for his very first evening—demonstrating the experienced and accomplished nature that has defined her family lineage.

The garden transforms under the full moon into an enchanted place where all flowers appear white—lilies, daphnes, orange-blossom, white stocks, pinks, and roses are visible as clearly as by day, while colored flowers exist only as fragrance. The three younger women sit on a low wall, watching the enormous moon cross the sky where Shelley had lived a century before. The sea shimmers along the moon's path, stars tremble, and mountains rise as misty blue outlines dotted with distant lights. Inside, the dining-room glows with candlelight and bright nasturtiums and marigolds, contrasting the cool calm of the moonlit garden.

Lotty whispers to Scrap that Rose embodies love itself. Scrap agrees, acknowledging that Rose is lovely anywhere—even among all the well-known beauties, nobody could dim her light that evening. Lotty speaks of love's wonders, noting that Rose sees past her husband's ordinary exterior to something deeper because she loves him. Scrap, however, reflects that love doesn't invariably transfigure people into saints; it has sometimes done the opposite, and she admits to herself that she has become a spoilt, sour, suspicious, and selfish spinster.

Frederick hurries to find Scrap before going to Rose, wanting to kiss her shoes in gratitude. Scrap jokes that she must put on new ones first. Frederick declares he will adore her forever now—for her beauty and also for her decency and loyalty. He compares her to a man who would behave toward his friend, noting that when Lotty blurted out that he is Rose's husband, Scrap behaved perfectly. Scrap offers her hand, and he kisses it before hurrying away. She offers to send for his luggage at the station, and Domenico makes another journey to Mezzago.

Scrap feels compunction toward Mr. Briggs, realizing how pleasant her days have been in his house, lying in his garden, enjoying his flowers and views. She acknowledges she pays him a ridiculously small sum compared to the benefits received, and realizes she never would have met Lotty without him. Impulsive gratitude floods her as she walks straight up to Briggs, humbled by these thoughts and ashamed of her previous churlishness.

Scrap tells Briggs earnestly that she owes him so much. He looks at her in wonder, stammering that he owes her for his first sight of something. Scrap interrupts, begging him to be ordinary and not humble—she insists he's worth fifty of her. Mr. Wilkins, observing this exchange, thinks it most unwise for Lady Caroline to encourage Briggs in this way, considering his obvious infatuation.

Mr. Wilkins considers that Briggs should be repelled utterly, with no half measures. Desiring to assist Lady Caroline, he offers hearty thanks on behalf of himself and his wife, suggesting they should have toasted Briggs at dinner. Briggs takes no notice, simply continuing to stare at Lady Caroline as though she were the first woman he had ever seen. Lotty then rises from the wall, takes Mr. Wilkins's arm, and draws him away toward the house, insisting she needs to tell him something now.

Mrs. Fisher sits by the fire, her great dead friends seeming to say the same things over and over, nothing new to be got from them anymore since they are dead. She craves for the living, the developing—the crystallized and finished wearies her. She thinks of having a son like Mr. Briggs, a dear boy going on, unfolding, alive and affectionate. Mrs. Wilkins sees the loneliness of age on her face and bends to kiss her. This time Mrs. Fisher actually holds Mrs. Wilkins's cheek against her own, feeling safe with this strange creature. Mrs. Wilkins believes she might be the other half of Mrs. Fisher's pair, seeing them becoming fast friends.

Mrs. Wilkins cheerfully announces they've come in and places a footstool under Mrs. Fisher's feet. When asked where the others are, she says the Roses have gone to the lower garden for lovemaking. Mr. Wilkins starts when she suggests they could be called "the Carolines," and becomes very angry when she suggests "the Briggses," considering this an outrageous insult to the entire race of Desters. Mrs. Wilkins remains untroubled, her grey eyes shining with light and conviction.

On the enchanted evening of the full moon, Lotty whispers to Scrap about love being a great thing that works wonders, observing that Rose sees through the mere trimmings of her husband to something deeper because she loves him. Lotty declares that there is nothing like love, noting how it brings happiness to everyone except herself and Mr. Briggs, and later, standing with Mr. Wilkins in the moonlight, she insists she can see Scrap and Mr. Briggs becoming the Briggses together.

That last week, the syringa comes out at San Salvatore and all the acacias flower. The delicate trees, hung with blossom among trembling leaves, fill the garden with new scent. Lying under an acacia tree and looking up at frail leaves and white flowers quivering against the blue sky, while the least movement of air shakes down their scent, provides great happiness. The whole garden dresses gradually in white, growing more and more scented with lilies, white stocks and pinks, banksia roses, syringa, and jessamine, culminating in the crowning fragrance of the acacias.

When, on the first of May, everybody goes away, even after they have descended the hill and passed through the iron gates into the village, they still can smell the acacias.