“I see.  And you talked of him?”

“We only saw each other for a few minutes.  The thunder-storm came on.—­Bertha, I never knew any one so mysterious as Mr. Warburton.  Isn’t it extraordinary that Norbert, his intimate friend, doesn’t know what he does?  I can’t help thinking he must write.  One can’t associate him with anything common, mean.”

“Perhaps his glory will burst upon us one of these days,” said Bertha.

“It really wouldn’t surprise me.  He has a remarkable face—­the kind of face that suggests depth and force.  I am sure he is very proud.  He could bear any extreme of poverty rather than condescend to ignoble ways of earning money.”

“Is the poor man very threadbare?” asked Bertha.  “Has his coat that greenish colour which comes with old age in cheap material?”

“You incorrigible!  As far as I have noticed, he is quite properly dressed.”

“Oh, oh!” protested Bertha, in a shocked tone.  “Properly dressed!  What a blow to my romantic imagination!  I thought at least his coat-cuffs would be worn out.  And his boots?  Oh, surely he is down at heel?  Do say that he’s down at heel, Rosamund!”

“What a happy girl you are, Bertha,” said the other after a laugh.  “I sometimes think I would give anything to be like you.”

“Ah, but you don’t know—­you can t see into the gloomy depths, hidden from every eye but my own.  For instance, while here we sit, talking as if I hadn’t a care in the world I am all the time thinking that I must go to Mr. Jollyman’s—­the grocer’s, that is —­as we haven’t a lump of sugar in the house.”

“Then let me walk with you,” said Rosamund.  “I oughtn’t to have come worrying you to-day, before you had time to settle down.  Just let me walk with you to the grocer’s, and then I’ll leave you at peace.”

They presently went forth, and walked for some distance westward along Fulham Road.

“Here’s Mr. Jollyman’s,” said Bertha.  “Will you wait for me, or come in?”

Rosamund followed her friend into the shop.  Absorbed in thought, she scarcely raised her eyes, until a voice from behind the counter replied to Bertha’s “Good-morning”; then, suddenly looking up, she saw that which held her motionless.  For a moment she gazed like a startled deer; the next her eyes fell, her face turned away; she fled out into the street.

And there Bertha found her, a few yards from the shop.

“Why did you run away?”

Rosamund had a dazed look.

“Who was that behind the counter?” she asked, under her breath.

“Mr. Jollyman.  Why?”

The other walked on.  Bertha kept at her side.

“What’s the matter?”

“Bertha—­Mr. Jollyman is Mr. Warburton.”

“Nonsense!”

“But he is!  Here’s the explanation—­here’s the mystery.  A grocer —­in an apron!”

Bertha was standing still.  She, too, looked astonished, perplexed.