at
she couldn't and never had been able to stop Christopher when she was in
this mood of her chin sticking out. What could she do in face of such a
chin? And besides, Mrs. Bilton's friends must be missing her very much
and ought to have her back. One should always live only with one's own
sort of people. Every other way of living, Anna-Felicitas was sure even
at this early stage of her existence, was bound to come to a bad end.
One could be fond of almost anybody, she held, if they were somewhere
else. Even of Uncle Arthur. Even he somehow seemed softened by distance.
But for living-together purposes there was only one kind of people
possible, and that was one's own kind. Unexpected and various were the
exteriors of one's own kind and the places one found them in, but one
always knew them. One felt comfortable with them at once; comfortable
and placid. Whatever else Mrs. Bilton might be feeling she wasn't
feeling placid. That was evident; and it was because she too wasn't with
her own kind. With her eyes fixed nervously on Mrs. Bilton who was
talking on happily, Anna-Felicitas reasoned with herself in the above
manner as she pushed back the letter, instead of, as at the back of her
mind she felt she ought to have done, tearing it up.

Anna-Rose folded it and addressed it to Mrs. Bilton. Then she got up and
held it out to her.

Anna-Felicitas got up too, her inside feeling strangely unsteady and
stirred round and round.

"Would you mind reading this?" said Anna-Rose faintly to Mrs. Bilton,
who took the letter mechanically and held it in her hand without
apparently noticing it, so much engaged was she by what she was saying.

"We're going out a moment to speak to Mr. Twist," Anna-Rose then said,
making for the door and beckoning to Anna-Felicitas, who still stood
hesitating.

She slipped out; and Anna-Felicitas, suddenly panic-stricken lest she
should be buttonholed all by herself fled after her.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Mr. Twist, his mind at ease, was in the charming room that was to be the
tea-room. It was full of scattered fittings and the noise of hammering,
but even so anybody could see what a delightful place it would presently
turn into.

The Open Arms was to make a specialty of wet days. Those were the days,
those consecutive days of downpour that came in the winter and lasted
without interruption for a fortnight at a time, when visitors in the
hotels were bored beyond expression and ready to welcome an