"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."

She did not like her name. It was a mean, small name, with a
kind of facetious twist, she thought, about its end like the upward
curve of a pugdog's tail. There it was, however. There was no doing
anything with it. Wilkins she was and Wilkins she would remain; and
though her husband encouraged her to give it on all occasions as Mrs.
Mellersh-Wilkins she only did that when he was within earshot, for she
thought Mellersh made Wilkins worse, emphasizing it in the way
Chatsworth on the gate-posts of a villa emphasizes the villa.