“Your things!” retorted Rosie, with scorn. “What your mistress told me to do, you cheeky little beggar! Your things indeed! 'Put a beggar on horseback and he'll ride to the devil,' and that's what Miss Starbrow's beginning to find out at last. And quite time, too! Embroidery! That's what you're going to wear perhaps when you're back in the slums you came from! I thought it wouldn't last!” And Rosie, banging the things about, pounding the mattress with clenched fist, and shaking the pillows like a terrier with a rat, kept up this strain of invective until she had finished her task, and then went off, well pleased to think that the day of her triumph was not perhaps very far distant.
On that day, however, Rosie herself was destined to experience great trouble of mind, and an anxiety about her future even exceeding that of Fan, who was spending the long hours alone in that big, cold, fireless room, grieving in her heart at the great change in her beloved mistress, and dropping many a tear on the embroidery in her hands.
It was about three o'clock, and feeling her fingers quite stiff with cold, she determined to go quietly down to the drawing-room in the hope of finding a fire lighted there so as to warm her hands. Miss Starbrow had not returned, and the house was very still, and after standing a few moments on the landing, anxious not to rouse the maid and draw a fresh volley of abuse on herself, she went softly down the stairs, and opened the drawing-room door. For a moment or two she stood motionless, and then muttering some incoherent apology turned and fled back to her room. For there, very much at his ease, sat Captain Horton, with Rosie on his knees, her arms about his neck, and her lips either touching his or in very close proximity to them.
Rosie slipped from her seat, and the Captain stood up, but the intruder had seen and gone, and their movements were too late.
“The spy! the cat!” snapped Rosie, grown suddenly pale with anger and apprehension.
“It's very fine to abuse the girl,” said the Captain; “but it was all through your infernal carelessness. Why didn't you lock the door?”
“Oh, you're going to blame me! That's like a man. Perhaps you're in love with the cat. I s'pose you think she's pretty.”
“I'd like to twist her neck, and yours too, for a fool. If any trouble comes you will be to blame.”
“Say what you like, I don't care. There'll be trouble enough, you may be sure.”
“Do you mean to say that she will dare to tell?”