“You must see to this, Rosamund,” George would say, shaking his head, and my father would descant on the menage of that West End club to which he belonged a great many years ago, before he married my mother.
Meanwhile I lived in a sort of dream. I was not unhappy, for my mother was better. The new life suited her. My father’s cheerful tones were more stimulating and strengthening than the best champagne or the strongest beef-tea.
At the end of the first week she expressed a desire to see Jack and his wife again.
“I will write and ask them to come here,” I said. I went down-stairs prepared to do this. I was thinking of the pleasure my letter would give to Hetty. How she would hurry her own and her husband’s departure—how pretty and surprised she would look when she came to our luxurious new home—how nice it would be to dress her suitably, and make life sweet and pleasant to her. I was thinking these thoughts and forgetting all about the conditions of Cousin Geoffrey’s will, when I went into the drawing-room to fetch my writing portfolio which I had left there on the previous evening.
“Hey-day!” said a voice. I raised my eyes and found myself face to face with Mr Gray. “How do you do, Miss Rosamund?” he said, shaking my hand. “I judge from your own blooming appearance that your mother is much better.”
“Yes, she is much better,” I replied.
“What a wise girl you are, and were! How much I respect you! Now can you give me a few moments of your time?”
“Yes,” I replied. My “Yes” was uttered in a meek voice. The gladness had gone out of my face and manner. “Yes,” I repeated, “my time is, of course, at your disposal, Mr Gray.”
“Well, let us sit here comfortably on this sofa. Miss Rosamund, I have been very considerate to you, have I not? I have not troubled you with word or message for a whole week.”
“I know it,” I replied. “I know you have been kind.” My eyes filled with tears.