“But not love you,” said Iris quickly.
“Pooh!” said Mrs Fotheringham.
She hardly spoke again for the rest of the evening, but remained deep in thought, from which Iris did not dare to rouse her by any question. The next day had been arranged for her return home, and when everything was ready, and the carriage waiting at the door to take her to the station, she went to say farewell to her godmother and Paradise Court. She found her sitting in the verandah, with the parrot on a stand close by, and there was such a lonely look about her that for a moment Iris felt sorry.
“Good-bye, godmother,” she said gently.
“Ah, you’re going,” said Mrs Fotheringham, holding out a hard white hand; then looking at her sharply:
“Are you glad to go?”
“I’ve enjoyed myself very much,” said Iris politely.
“But you like Albert Street better?”
“Well, you see, the others are all there.” She could not help smiling a little as she thought how the “others” would all be at the station to meet her, and how they would laugh, and talk, and wave things, and kiss her, and how much she would have to tell them.
“I’ll give you a proverb to take back with you,” said Mrs Fotheringham after a moment’s pause. “Try and remember it. ‘When Poverty comes in at the door, Love flies out of the window.’ There never was a truer word spoken.”