“No indeed. I never have more than two cups at breakfast. Would you like an orange?”
“No, thank you. Would you?”
“No, I don’t eat fruit at breakfast. It is an American fashion which I am too old now to adopt. Have you had all you want?”
“Quite. Have you?”
Mrs. Fisher paused before replying. Was this a habit, this trick of answering a simple question with the same question? If so it must be curbed, for no one could live for four weeks in any real comfort with somebody who had a habit.
She glanced at Mrs. Arbuthnot, and her parted hair and gentle brow reassured her. No; it was accident, not habit, that had produced those echoes. She could as soon imagine a dove having tiresome habits as Mrs. Arbuthnot. Considering her, she thought what a splendid wife she would have been for poor Carlyle. So much better than that horrid clever Jane. She would have soothed him.
“Then shall we go?” she suggested.
“Let me help you up,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, all consideration.
“Oh, thank you—I can manage perfectly. It’s only sometimes that my stick prevents me—”
Mrs. Fisher got up quite easily; Mrs. Arbuthnot had hovered over her for nothing.