Well, she would get over that presently; she would get over it inevitably, Mrs. Wilkins was sure, after a day or two in the extraordinary atmosphere of peace in that place.
Meanwhile she obviously hadn’t even begun to get over it. She stood looking at her and Rose with an expression that appeared to be one of anger. Anger. Fancy. Silly old nerve-racked London feelings, thought Mrs. Wilkins, whose eyes saw the room full of kisses, and everybody in it being kissed, Mrs. Fisher as copiously as she herself and Rose.
“You don’t like us being in here,” said Mrs. Wilkins, getting up and at once, after her manner, fixing on the truth. “Why?”
“I should have thought,” said Mrs. Fisher leaning on her stick, “you could have seen that it is my room.”
“You mean because of the photographs,” said Mrs. Wilkins.
Mrs. Arbuthnot, who was a little red and surprised, got up too.
“And the notepaper,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Notepaper with my London address on it. That pen—”
She pointed. It was still in Mrs. Wilkins’s hand.
“Is yours. I’m very sorry,” said Mrs. Wilkins, laying it on the table. And she added smiling, that it had just been writing some very amiable things.
“But why,” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, who found herself unable to acquiesce in Mrs. Fisher’s arrangements without at least a gentle struggle, “ought we not to be here? It’s a sitting-room.”