But Mrs. Wilkins, laying her hand softly and caressingly on the part of The Times where the advertisement was, as though the mere printed words of it were precious, only said, “Perhaps that’s why this seems so wonderful.”
“No—I think that’s wonderful anyhow,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, forgetting facts and faintly sighing.
“Then you were reading it?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, her eyes going dreamy again.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” murmured Mrs. Wilkins.
“Wonderful,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. Her face, which had lit up, faded into patience again. “Very wonderful,” she said. “But it’s no use wasting one’s time thinking of such things.”
“Oh, but it is,” was Mrs. Wilkins’s quick, surprising reply; surprising because it was so much unlike the rest of her—the characterless coat and skirt, the crumpled hat, the undecided wisp of hair straggling out. “And just the considering of them is worth while in itself—such a change from Hampstead—and sometimes I believe—I really do believe—if one considers hard enough one gets things.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot observed her patiently. In what category would she, supposing she had to, put her?
“Perhaps,” she said, leaning forward a little, “you will tell me your name. If we are to be friends”—she smiled her grave smile—“as I hope we are, we had better begin at the beginning.”
“Oh yes—how kind of you. I’m Mrs. Wilkins,” said Mrs. Wilkins. “I don’t expect,” she added, flushing, as Mrs. Arbuthnot said nothing, “that it conveys anything to you. Sometimes it—it doesn’t seem to convey anything to me either. But”—she looked round with a movement of seeking help—“I am Mrs. Wilkins.”