?--she has taken to teaching; she's
at St. Jean de Luz. But I'm no use for anything of that kind. I must be
independent. Why do you smile?"

"Not at you, but at myself. I used to say the same thing. But I had no
talent of any kind, and when the smash came--"

They were crossing the bridge. Will looked westward, in the direction
of his shop, and it struck him how amusing it would be to startle
Rosamund by a disclosure of his social status. Would she still be
anxious for his company in search of the picturesque? He could not feel
sure--curiosity urged him to try the experiment, but an obscure
apprehension closed his lips.

"How very hard for you!" sighed Rosamund. "But don't think," she added
quickly, "that I have a weak dread of poverty. Not at all! So long as
one can support oneself. Nowadays, when every one strives and battles
for money, there's a distinction in doing without it."

Five minutes more, and they were in Oakley Crescent. Rosamund paused
before reaching the house in which she dwelt, took the camp-stool from
her companion, and offered her hand for good-bye. Only then did
Warburton become aware that he had said nothing since that remark of
hers about poverty; he had walked in a dream.

CHAPTER 32

August came, and Strangwyn, the great whisky distiller, was yet alive.
For very shame, Will kept his thoughts from that direction. The gloomy
mood had again crept upon him, in spite of all his reasons for hope;
his sleep became mere nightmare, and his day behind the counter a
bilious misery.

Since the occasion last recorded, Bertha Cross had not been to the
shop. One day, the order was brought by a servant; a week later, Mrs.
Cross herself appeared. The querulous lady wore a countenance so nearly
cheerful that Warburton regarded her uneasily. She had come to purchase
tea, and remarked that it was for use during a seaside holiday; you
could never depend on the tea at seaside places. Perhaps, thought Will,
the prospect of change sufficed to explain her equanimity. But for the
rest of the day he was so glum and curt, that Allchin frequently looked
at him with pained remonstrance.

At home, he found a telegram on his table. He clutched at it, rent the
envelope. But no; it was not what he expected. Norbert Franks asked him
to look in that evening. So, weary and heartsick as he was, he took the
train to Notting Hill Gate.

"What is it?" he asked bluntly, on entering the studio.

"Wanted a talk, that