“Was that necessary, my dear?”

“Perhaps not.  But I did.”

“Well, be careful, Rosie.  We are not at Redford now, you know.  Girls living alone and going about in public places—­”

“And that sort of person,” Frances broke in crossly, “always takes advantage of a little notice.  Why, he looked at you as if you were friends and equals, Rose!”

Rose turned to retort again, but feeling the weight of opinion against her, forbore.  And she was glad she had never mentioned the circumstances under which she had made poor Peter Breen’s acquaintance.

On a later afternoon she was in the attic room, sewing at a frock for Robbie Goldsworthy—­Robert Pennycuick, after the grandfather who had been expected to leave much money—­while Deb and Frances entertained visitors downstairs.  Old Keziah had brought her tea and cakes, and she had had a pleasant time with her work and her thoughts, and her view of Bruce and his premises, when suddenly Frances flounced in.

“Now, madam!” exclaimed the irate young lady, “we have to thank you for this.  What did I say?  Give these people an inch and they will take an ell—­a mile indeed, if they can get it.”

“What people?” inquired Rose faintly.

“Those Breen people—­those drapers.  They have had the cheek to come and call on us—­to call and leave their cards, ’First and third Wednesday’, as if they expected us to call back again!”

“Who came?”

“Mrs and Miss—­with half the shop upon their backs.  Debbie”—­Deb was coming in behind her—­“you are not going to return the call of those people, I trust?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” smiled Deb easily.  “It would please them, and it wouldn’t hurt us.  There would be no need, of course, to return a second one.”

“I should think it would not hurt us,” Rose spoke up, “to behave like decent people.  I never heard that it was considered high breeding and fine manners to snub your inferiors—­if they are your inferiors.”  “You have to snub them,” said Frances, “if they don’t know manners themselves.”

“A very gentle snub,” said Deb.  “We are not going to be rude to the poor things.  We will call once—­that is, I will—­in a few months’ time.  After all, it was hardly their fault.”

“No; it is Rose’s fault.  Please, Rose, in future be so good as to consider your family a little, as well as your neighbours’ dogs.”

Rose’s only reply was to start the sewing-machine and drive it vehemently.  But her heart burned within her.  Evidently Peter’s mother and sister had been insulted in her house, after he had been so good to her.