The next day, when work at Great Portland Street was just finished, she fell into conversation with Mildred Vesper. Miss Barfoot had an engagement to dine out that evening, and Rhoda ended by inviting Milly to come home with her to Chelsea. To Milly this was a great honour; she hesitated because of her very plain dress, but easily allowed herself to be persuaded when she saw that Miss Nunn really desired her company.
Before dinner they had a walk in Battersea Park. Rhoda had never been so frank and friendly; she induced the quiet, unpretending girl to talk of her early days, her schools, her family. Remarkable was Milly’s quiet contentedness; not long ago she had received an increase of payment from Miss Barfoot, and one would have judged that scarcely a wish now troubled her, unless it were that she might see her scattered brothers and sisters, all of whom, happily, were doing pretty well in the struggle for existence.
“You must feel rather lonely in your lodgings sometimes?” said Rhoda.
“Very rarely. In future I shall have music in the evening. Our best room has been let to a young man who has a violin, and he plays “The Blue Bells of Scotland”—not badly.”
Rhoda did not miss the humorous intention, veiled, as usual, under a manner of extreme sedateness.
“Does Mrs. Widdowson come to see you?”
“Not often. She came a few days ago.”
“You go to her house sometimes?”
“I haven’t been there for several months. At first I used to go rather frequently, but—it’s a long way.”
To this subject Rhoda returned after dinner, when they were cosily settled in the drawing-room.