the disagreeable
things I could; I knew that was what you would wish."

"Certainly," fell from Rosamund.

"I didn't positively calumniate you, but just the unpleasant little
hints that a friend is so well able to throw out; the sort of thing
likely to chill any one. I hope you quite approve?"

"Quite."

"Well, the odd thing was that they didn't quite have the effect I aimed
at. He talked of you more and more, instead of less and less. Wasn't it
provoking, Rosamund?"

Again their eyes encountered.

"I wish," continued Miss Elvan, "I knew how much of this is truth, and
how much Bertha's peculiar humour."

"It's substantial truth. That there may be humour in it, I don't deny,
but it isn't of my importing."

"When did he last come to see you?" Rosamund inquired.

"Let me see. Just before he went to see you."

"It doesn't occur to you," said Rosamund, slowly meditative, "that he
had some other reason--not the apparent one--for coming to your house?"

"It doesn't occur to me, and never will occur to me," was Bertha's
amused answer.

When it was time for Bertha to walk home wards, Rosamund put her hat
on, and they went out together. Turning to the west, they passed along
Cheyne Walk, and paused awhile by old Chelsea Church. The associations
of the neighbourhood moved Miss Elvan to a characteristic display of
enthusiasm. Delightful to live here! A joy to work amid such memories,
of ancient and of latter time!

"I must get Mr. Warburton to come and walk about Chelsea with me," she
added.

"Mr. Warburton?"

"He's a great authority on London antiquities. Bertha, if you happen to
see Norbert these days, do ask him for Mr. Warburton's address."

"Why not ask your people at Ashtead?" said Bertha.

"I shan't be going there for two or three weeks. Promise to ask
Norbert--will you? For me, of course."

Bertha had turned to look at the river. Her face wore a puzzled gravity.

"I'll try to think of it," she replied, walking slowly on.

"He's a great mystery," were Rosamund's next words. "My uncle has no
idea what he does, and Norbert, they tell me, is just as ignorant, or
at all events, professes to be. Isn't it a queer thing? He came to
grief in business two years ago, and since then he has lived out of
sight. Uncle Ralph supposes he had to take a clerk's place somewhere,
and that he doesn't care to talk about it."

"Is he such a snob?" asked Bertha, disinterestedly.

"No one would think so who knows him. I'