Anna-Felicitas felt sure Christopher was being terribly impetuous, and she felt sure she ought to stop her.  But what a joy to be without Mrs. Bilton!  The thought of going to bed in the placid sluggishness dear to her heart, without having to listen, to be attentive, to remember to be tidy because if she weren’t there would be no room for Mrs. Bilton’s things, was too much for her.  Authority pursuing her into her bedroom was what she had found most difficult to bear.  There must be respite.  There must be intervals in every activity or endurance.  Even the liebe Gott, otherwise so indefatigable, had felt this and arranged for the relaxation of Sundays.

She pushed the letter back with a beating heart, and told herself that 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.