At this stage Mrs. Fisher wished more than ever that she were able to talk over her strange feelings with some one who would understand. There was, however, no one who would understand except Mrs. Wilkins herself. She would. She would know at once, Mrs. Fisher was sure, what she felt like. But this was impossible. It would be as abject as begging the very microbe that was infecting one for protection against its disease.
She continued, accordingly, to bear her sensations in silence, and was driven by them into that frequent aimless appearing in the top garden which presently roused even Scrap’s attention.
Scrap had noticed it, and vaguely wondered at it, for some time before Mr. Wilkins inquired of her one morning as he arranged her cushions for her—he had established the daily assisting of Lady Caroline into her chair as his special privilege—whether there was anything the matter with Mrs. Fisher.
At that moment Mrs. Fisher was standing by the eastern parapet, shading her eyes and carefully scrutinising the distant white houses of Mezzago. They could see her through the branches of the daphnes.
“I don’t know,” said Scrap.
“She is a lady, I take it,” said Mr. Wilkins, “who would be unlikely to have anything on her mind?”
“I should imagine so,” said Scrap, smiling.
“If she has, and her restlessness appears to suggest it, I should be more than glad to assist her with advice.”
“I am sure you would be most kind.”
“Of course she has her own legal adviser, but he is not on the spot. I am. And a lawyer on the spot,” said Mr. Wilkins, who endeavoured to make his conversation when he talked to Lady Caroline light, aware that one must be light with young ladies, “is worth two in—we won’t be ordinary and complete the proverb, but say London.”