"Oh, but I'm sure you have--I see you being good--and that's why
you're not happy."

"She shouldn't say things like that," thought Mrs. Arbuthnot. "I
must try and help her not to."

Aloud she said gravely, "I don't know why you insist that I'm not
happy. When you know me better I think you'll find that I am. And I'm
sure you don't mean really that goodness, if one could attain it, makes
one unhappy."

"Yes, I do," said Mrs. Wilkins. "Our sort of goodness does. We
have attained it, and we are unhappy. There are miserable sorts of
goodness and happy sorts--the sort we'll have at the mediaeval castle,
for instance, is the happy sort."

"That is, supposing we go there," said Mrs. Arbuthnot
restrainingly. She felt that Mrs. Wilkins needed holding on to.
"After all, we've only written just to ask. Anybody may do that. I
think it quite likely we shall find the conditions impossible, and even
if they were not, probably by to-morrow we shall not want to go."

"I see us there," was Mrs. Wilkins's answer to that.

All this was very unbalancing. Mrs. Arbuthnot, as she presently
splashed though the dripping streets on her way to a meeting she was to
speak at, was in an unusually disturbed condition of mind. She had,
she hoped, shown herself very calm to Mrs. Wilkins, very practical and
sober, concealing her own excitement. But she was really
extraordinarily moved, and she felt happy, and she felt guilty, and she