Rose nodded.
Her gaze took in the mean little street and the door leading into the dark shop, and the angle of the wall which discreetly hid the three golden balls that protruded behind.
Rose Aviolet mopped at her wet eyes with a screwed-up handkerchief and then spoke, clearly enough in spite of the choke in her voice.
“I’m quite, quite certain that this is the right place for me, except just when I’ve got to be at Squires for the sake of Ces. Uncle Alfred is my relation, and him and me understand one another all right. It was me and the Aviolets that didn’t. And it would always be the same, with anybody of their sort, and anybody of mine.”
Felix Menebees opened the door.
“Good-bye,” said Rose, and went into the shop.
Rose Aviolet shed no more tears over her abortive romance. “No use crying over spilt milk” had been a favourite aphorism of Mrs. Smith’s, and it was one which had always recommended itself to Rose.
She did not allow Uncle Alfred any opportunity of remarking that his advice had been taken, but wrote to Dr. Lucian with a request for work.
“And it seems fair to tell you that what I once hinted about myself won’t ever come off now. And I’m not going to marry anybody ever. I’ve got enough to do thinking about Ces, and if there’s any spare time, I can put it in over the job you’re going to get me.”