"Ah!" said Lancelot, crumbling his toast.
"I don't believe she knows what she wants," concluded Rosie, turning to go.
"Then I suppose she's in the kitchen now?" he said, pouring out his coffee down the side of his cup.
"No, she's gone out now, sir."
"Gone out!" He put down the coffee-pot—his saucer was full. "Gone out where?"
"Only to buy things. You know her vicar is coming to take her away the day after to-morrow, and mother wanted her to look tidy enough to travel with the vicar; so she gave her a sovereign."
"Ah, yes; your mother said something about it."
"And yet she won't answer the bells," said Rosie, "and mother's asthma is worse, so I don't know whether I shall be able to take my lesson to-day, Mr. Lancelot. I'm so sorry, because it's the last."
Rosie probably did not intend the ambiguity of the phrase. There was real regret in her voice.
"Do you like learning, then?" said Lancelot, softened, for the first time, towards his pupil. His nerves seemed strangely flaccid to-day. He did not at all feel the relief he should have felt at forgoing his daily infliction.