"You poor thing!" Gertrude murmured devotedly.
"I'm seven months gone nearly," Lilian murmured, as if in despair.
"Well, it'll soon be over, then!" said Gertie buoyantly, in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Yes, but shall I ever again be like I was?" Lilian demanded gloomily.
"Of course you will, dear. And prettier. They almost always are, you know. I've often noticed it."
"You dear!" cried Lilian, "and do you mean to say you've got up earlier and come all the way down from Islington here to see me before going to the office? And me keeping you waiting!"
"Why! But of course I came. I'm responsible to you, now poor Miss Grig's gone. I told her I would be. And I can't tell you how glad I shall be if I suit you and you find you can keep me on. It's such a good situation."
Lilian lifted her face again and kissed her--but not the kiss of gratitude (though there was gratitude in it), the kiss of recompense, of reward. It was Lilian who, in allowing herself to be faithfully served, was conferring the favour. Gertrude was the eternal lieutenant, without ambition, without dreams, asking only to serve with loyalty in security. In that moment Lilian understood as never before the function of these priceless Gertrudes whose first instinct when they lost one master was to attach themselves to another.
"Look here!" said Lilian. "D'you know what I want? I want you to come and live here till it's over."
"Of course I will," Gertrude agreed, eagerly ready to abandon her domestic habits and interior for as long as she was required to do so, and to resume them whenever it might suit Lilian's convenience. And all because Lilian had been beautiful and successful, and would be beautiful and successful once more!