“Serve me,” she directed Francesca, who again showed a disposition to wait for the others.

“Oh, why won’t they leave me alone?” Scrap asked herself when she heard more scrunchings on the little pebbles which took the place of grass, and therefore knew some one else was approaching.

She kept her eyes tight shut this time.  Why should she go in to lunch if she didn’t want to?  This wasn’t a private house; she was in no way tangled up in duties towards a tiresome hostess.  For all practical purposes San Salvatore was an hotel, and she ought to be let alone to eat or not to eat exactly as if she really had been in an hotel.

But the unfortunate Scrap could not just sit still and close her eyes without rousing that desire to stroke and pet in her beholders with which she was only too familiar.  Even the cook had patted her.  And now a gentle hand—­how well she knew and how much she dreaded gentle hands—­was placed on her forehead.

“I’m afraid you’re not well,” said a voice that was not Mrs. Fisher’s, and therefore must belong to one of the originals.

“I have a headache,” murmured Scrap.  Perhaps it was best to say that; perhaps it was the shortest cut to peace.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot softly, for it was her hand being gentle.

“And I,” said Scrap to herself, “who thought if I came here I would escape mothers.”

“Don’t you think some tea would do you good?” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot tenderly.

“Tea?  The idea was abhorrent to Scrap.  In this heat to be drinking tea in the middle of the day. . .

“No,” she murmured.

“I expect what would really be best for her,” said another voice, “is to be left quiet.”

How sensible, thought Scrap; and raised the eye-lashes of one eye just enough to peep through and see who was speaking.

It was the freckled original.  The dark one, then, was the one with the hand.  The freckled one rose in her esteem.

“But I can’t bear to think of you with a headache and nothing being done for it,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot.  “Would a cup of strong black coffee—?”

Scrap said no more.  She waited, motionless and dumb, till Mrs. Arbuthnot should remove her hand.  After all, she couldn’t stand there all day, and when she went away she would have to take her hand with her.

“I do think,” said the freckled one, “that she wants nothing except quiet.”

And perhaps the freckled one pulled the one with the hand by the sleeve, for the hold on Scrap’s forehead relaxed, and after a minute’s silence, during which no doubt she was being contemplated—­she was always being contemplated—­the footsteps began to scrunch the pebbles again, and grew fainter, and were gone.

“Lady Caroline has a headache,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, re-entering the dining-room and sitting down in her place next to Mrs. Fisher.  “I can’t persuade her to have even a little tea, or some black coffee.  Do you know what aspirin is in Italian?”