‘Meet you?  You don’t mean to say he used to meet you?’ whispered Ethelberta.

‘Yes,’ said Picotee; ’but he could not help it.  We used to meet on the road, and there was no other road unless I had gone ever so far round.  But it is worse than that, Berta!  That was why I couldn’t bide in Sandbourne, and—­and ran away to you up here; it was not because I wanted to see you, Berta, but because I—­I wanted—­’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Ethelberta hurriedly.

’And then when I went downstairs he mistook me for you for a moment, and that caused—­a confusion!’

‘O, well, it does not much matter,’ said Ethelberta, kissing Picotee soothingly.  ’You ought not of course to have come to London in such a manner; but, since you have come, we will make the best of it.  Perhaps it may end happily for you and for him.  Who knows?’

‘Then don’t you want him, Berta?’

‘O no; not at all!’

‘What—­and don’t you really want him, Berta?’ repeated Picotee, starting up.

’I would much rather he paid his addresses to you.  He is not the sort of man I should wish to—­think it best to marry, even if I were to marry, which I have no intention of doing at present.  He calls to see me because we are old friends, but his calls do not mean anything more than that he takes an interest in me.  It is not at all likely that I shall see him again! and I certainly never shall see him unless you are present.’

‘That will be very nice.’

’Yes.  And you will be always distant towards him, and go to leave the room when he comes, when I will call you back; but suppose we continue this to-morrow?  I can tell you better then what to do.’

When Picotee had left her the second time, Ethelberta turned over upon her breast and shook in convulsive sobs which had little relationship with tears.  This abandonment ended as suddenly as it had begun—­not lasting more than a minute and a half altogether—­and she got up in an unconsidered and unusual impulse to seek relief from the stinging sarcasm of this event—­the unhappy love of Picotee—­by mentioning something of it to another member of the family, her eldest sister Gwendoline, who was a woman full of sympathy.

Ethelberta descended to the kitchen, it being now about ten o’clock.  The room was empty, Gwendoline not having yet returned, and Cornelia, being busy about her own affairs upstairs.  The French family had gone to the theatre, and the house on that account was very quiet to-night.  Ethelberta sat down in the dismal place without turning up the gas, and in a few minutes admitted Gwendoline.

The round-faced country cook floundered in, untying her bonnet as she came, laying it down on a chair, and talking at the same time.  ’Such a place as this London is, to be sure!’ she exclaimed, turning on the gas till it whistled.  ’I wish I was down in Wessex again.  Lord-a-mercy, Berta, I didn’t see it was you!  I thought it was Cornelia.  As I was saying, I thought that, after biding in this underground cellar all the week, making up messes for them French folk, and never pleasing ’em, and never shall, because I don’t understand that line, I thought I would go out and see father, you know.’