Rose did indeed ask herself this question in the days that ensued.
She saw Lord Charlesbury again, a few days later, when he asked her to lunch with him at a very quiet little restaurant, of which Rose had never heard before, in a quarter of London which she had always supposed to be an unfashionable one. On that occasion he made no reference whatever to his visit to Ovington Street, but again suggested indirectly that Mrs. Aviolet should seek more congenial surroundings for herself.
“But you don’t understand,” said Rose at last. “It’s at Squires, and places like that, that I’m such a fish out of water. The shop, and all that, is my home.”
She looked at him as she spoke, and a horrible sense of finality came over her, although not a muscle of his face had altered.
“I’ve got a headache,” said Rose abruptly. “I’m going home.”
He took her back to Ovington Street.
Rose had neither the training nor the temperament conducive to self-command. In the taxi, to her own unutterable dismay, she began to cry.
“It is my headache,” she lied desperately, the tears streaming down her face. “I often get like this—the pain is dreadful!”
“I’m so sorry,” said Charlesbury. His face and his voice alike showed a deep concern.
At the door he looked at her rather wistfully, holding her hand in farewell. “Are you quite, quite certain that you don’t need a change—that you’re all right here?”