"Bertha Cross—?"
Again Franks nodded and laughed. An odd smile rose to his wife's lips; she mused for a moment, then asked:
"And what position has he got?"
"Position? His position behind the counter, that's all. Say's he shan't budge. By the bye, his mother died last autumn; he's in easier circumstances; the shop does well, it seems. He thought of trying for something else, but talked it over with Bertha Cross, and they decided to stick to groceries. They'll live in the house at Walham Green. Mrs. Cross is going away—to keep house for a brother of hers."
Rosamund heaved a sigh, murmuring:
"Poor Bertha!"
"A grocer's wife," said Franks, his eyes wandering. "Oh, confound it! Really you know—" He took an impatient turn across the floor. Again his wife sighed and murmured:
"Poor Bertha!"
"Of course," said Franks, coming to a pause, "there's a good deal to be said for sticking to a business which yields a decent income, and promises much more."
"Money!" exclaimed Rosamund scornfully. "What is money?"