“In church?” echoed Mrs. Arbuthnot.
“And this seems such a wonderful thing—this advertisement about the wistaria—and—”
Mrs. Wilkins, who must have been at least thirty, broke off and wriggled in her chair with the movement of an awkward and embarrassed schoolgirl.
“It seems so wonderful,” she went on in a kind of burst, “and—it is such a miserable day . . .”
And then she sat looking at Mrs. Arbuthnot with the eyes of an imprisoned dog.
“This poor thing,” thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, whose life was spent in helping and alleviating, “needs advice.”
She accordingly prepared herself patiently to give it.
“If you see me in church,” she said, kindly and attentively, “I suppose you live in Hampstead too?”
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Wilkins. And she repeated, her head on its long thin neck drooping a little as if the recollection of Hampstead bowed her, “Oh yes.”
“Where?” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, who, when advice was needed, naturally first proceeded to collect the facts.