“Oh, don’t trouble about me, mother,” said the listener.  “Nothing is simpler.”

“But what would you do?”

“Oh, there are all sorts of possibilities.  At the worst”—­Bertha paused a moment, face averted, and lips roguish—­“I could get married.”

And so the disclosure came about.  Mrs. Cross seemed so startled as to be almost pained; one would have thought that no remotest possibility of such a thing had ever occurred to her.

“Then Mr. Warburton has found a position?” she asked at length.

“No, he keeps to the shop.”

“But—­my dear—­you don’t mean to tell me—?”

The question ended in a mere gasp.  Mrs. Cross’ eyes were darkened with incredulous horror.

“Yes,” said Bertha, calmly, pleasantly, “we have decided that there’s no choice.  The business is a very good one; it improves from day to day; now that there are two assistants, Mr. Warburton need not work so hard as he used to.”

“But, my dearest Bertha, you mean to say that you are going to be the wife of a grocer?”

“Yes, mother, I really have made up my mind to it.  After all, is it so very disgraceful?”

“What will your friends say?  What will—­”

“Mrs. Grundy?” interposed Bertha.

“I was going to say Mrs. Franks—­”

Bertha nodded, and answered laughingly: 

“That’s very much the same thing, I’m afraid.”

CHAPTER 48

Norbert Franks was putting the last touches to a portrait of his wife; a serious portrait, full length, likely to be regarded as one of his most important works.  Now and then he glanced at the original, who sat reading; his eye was dull, his hand moved mechanically, he hummed a monotonous air.

Rosamund having come to the end of her book, closed it, and looked up.

“Will that do?” she asked, after suppressing a little yawn.

The painter merely nodded.  She came to his side, and contemplated the picture, inclining her head this way and that with an air of satisfaction.

“Better than the old canvas I put my foot through, don’t you think?” asked Franks.

“Of course there’s no comparison.  You’ve developed wonderfully.  In those days—­”

Franks waited for the rest of the remark, but his wife lost herself in contemplation of the portrait.  Assuredly he had done nothing more remarkable in the way of bold flattery.  Any one who had seen Mrs. Franks only once or twice, and at her best, might accept the painting as a fair “interpretation” of her undeniable beauty; those who knew her well would stand bewildered before such a counterfeit presentment.

“Old Warburton must come and see it,” said the artist presently.

Rosamund uttered a careless assent.  Long since she had ceased to wonder whether Norbert harboured any suspicions concerning his friend’s brief holiday in the south of France.  Obviously he knew nothing of the dramatic moment which had preceded, and brought about, his marriage, nor would he ever know.