Rose dared not admit to the telegram. The sight of a telegram was not infrequent at Squires, but in Ovington Street, a telegram signified a first cause of considerable magnitude. She knew that Uncle Alfred would have considered that a post-card could sufficiently announce the date and hour of her arrival, and in her heart, Rose agreed with him. The telegram had been Lord Charlesbury’s doing, like so much else.
Cecil had no return of croup, and the next day they left the rooms over the pawnshop.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Aviolet,” said Felix Menebees wistfully. “I hope the country will do Cecil a great deal of good.”
“Good-bye, Felix. Thank you for what you did that night he was ill. I’ll never forget it. I expect you’ll see us here one of these days again.”
Rose heartily shook the pale youth’s hand.
Her farewell to Artie Millar, in whom she had long ceased to be interested, was tepid by comparison. Uncle Alfred addressed his parting speech to his guests from the top of the stairs, where he had received them a fortnight earlier.
“Good-bye to you, Rose, good-bye to you, my little fellow. You are extremely fortunate in having one of the stately homes of England, as the poet calls them, thus thrown open to you. I feel sure,” said Uncle Alfred, with a doubting eye fixed upon his niece, “I feel certain that you appreciate your good fortune to the full. And I am equally sure, my dear niece, if you will allow an old man to speak a word in season, that you will remember from Whom all blessings flow. Take no credit unto yourself for those things which are Cæsar’s. And remember that I am prepared to enter into an arrangement with you, Rose, at any time, should you wish to return here when your boy has gone to school.”
Rose quite understood that this was the nearest approach to a cordial invitation that Uncle Alfred would permit himself, and enough of his blood ran in her own veins for her to take the suggested “arrangement” in the matter-of-course spirit in which he proposed it.
She said, “Thanks very much indeed, Uncle,” in an affectionate way, kissed him resoundingly, and ran downstairs.
Cecil was in high spirits. “Shall I ride the pony again, Mummie, and will Uncle Ford let me carry the rabbits for him when he’s been shooting?”