What am I to do if it doesn't?" asked Miss Elvan, with her sweet
smile, and in a tone of irresistible argument.

"True," conceded her humorous friend. "There's no other way out of the
difficulty."

This was on the day of Rosamund's coming to Chelsea. A week later,
Bertha found the sitting-room brightened with the hanging
water-colours, with curtains of some delicate fabric at the windows,
with a new rug before the fire place.

"These things have cost so little," said Rosamund, half apologetically.
"And--yes, I was obliged to buy this little tea service; I really
couldn't use Mrs. Darby's; it spoilt the taste of the tea. Trifles, but
they really have their importance; they help to keep one in the right
mind. Oh, I must show you an amusing letter I've had from Winnie.
Winifred is prudence itself. She wouldn't spend a sixpence
unnecessarily. 'Suppose one fell ill,' she writes, 'what a blessing it
would be to feel that one wasn't helpless and dependent. Oh, do be
careful with your money, and consider very, very seriously what is the
best course to take in your position.' Poor, dear old Winnie! I know
she frets and worries about me, and pictures me throwing gold away by
the handful. Yet, as you know, that isn't my character at all. If I lay
out a few sovereigns to make myself comfortable here, I know what I'm
doing; it'll all come back again in work. As you know, Bertha, I'm not
afraid of poverty--not a bit! I had very much rather be shockingly
poor, living in a garret and half starved, than just keep myself tidily
going in lodgings such as these were before I made the little changes.
Winnie has a terror of finding herself destitute. She jumped for joy
when she was offered that work, and I'm sure she'd be content to live
there in the same way for years. She feels safe as long as she needn't
touch her money."

Winifred Elvan, since her father's death, had found an engagement as
governess in an English family at St. Jean de Luz. This, in the younger
sister's eyes, involved a social decline, more disagreeable to her than
she chose to confess.

"The one thing," pursued Rosamund, "that I really dread, is the
commonplace. If I were utterly, wretchedly, grindingly poor, there'd be
at all events a savour of the uncommon about it. I can't imagine myself
marrying a prosperous shopkeeper; but if I cared for a clerk who had
nothing but a pound a week, I would marry him to-morrow."

"The result," said Bertha, "might be lamentably