thought of asking the Fitzjames girls."

"You don't think we might have him at the same time?"

Rosamund pursed her lips a little, averting her eyes as she answered:

"Would he care for it? And he said--didn't he?--that he meant to tell
everybody, everywhere, how he earned his living. Wouldn't it be just a
little--?"

Franks laughed uneasily.

"Yes, it might be just a little--. Well, he must come and see the
picture quietly. And I'll go and look up the poor old fellow to-night,
I really will."

This time, the purpose was carried out. Franks returned a little after
midnight, and was surprised to find Rosamund sitting in the studio. A
friend had looked in late in the evening, she said, and had stayed
talking.

"All about her husband's pictures, so tiresome? She thinks them
monuments of genius!"

"His last thing isn't half bad," said Franks, good-naturedly.

"Perhaps not. Of course I pretended to think him the greatest painter
of modern times. Nothing else will satisfy the silly little woman. You
found Mr. Warburton?"

Franks nodded, smiling mysteriously.

"I have news for you."

Knitting her brows a little his wife looked interrogation.

"He's going to be married. Guess to whom."

"Not to--?"

"Well--?"

"Bertha Cross--?"

Again Franks nodded and laughed. An odd smile rose to his wife's lips;
she mused for a moment, then asked:

"And what position has he got?"

"Position? His position behind the counter, that's all. Say's he shan't
budge. By the bye, his mother died last autumn; he's in easier
circumstances; the shop does well, it seems. He thought of trying for
something else, but talked it over with Bertha Cross, and they decided
to stick to groceries. They'll live in the house at Walham Green. Mrs.
Cross is going away--to keep house for a brother of hers."

Rosamund heaved a sigh, murmuring:

"Poor Bertha!"

"A grocer's wife," said Franks, his eyes wandering. "Oh, confound it!
Really you know--" He took an impatient turn across the floor. Again
his wife sighed and murmured:

"Poor Bertha!"

"Of course," said Franks, coming to a pause, "there's a good deal to be
said for sticking to a business which yields a decent income, and
promises much more."

"Money!" exclaimed Rosamund scornfully. "What is money?"

"We find it useful," quietly remarked the other.

"Certainly we do; but you are an artist, Norbert, and money is only an
accident of your career. Do we ever talk about it, or think