Rosamund flushed, and could not raise her eyes.

“We didn’t know,” said Franks, with his nervous little laugh, “whether you cared—­to talk about it—­”

“I’ll talk about it with any one you like.  So you do know?  That’s all right.  I still owe my apology to Mrs. Franks for having given her such a shock.  The disclosure was really too sudden.”

“It is I who should beg you to forgive me, Mr. Warburton,” replied Rosamund, in her sweetest accents.  “I behaved in a very silly way.  But my friend Bertha Cross treated me as I deserved.  She declared that she was ashamed of me.  But do not, pray do not, think me worse than I was.  I ran away really because I felt I had surprised a secret.  I was embarrassed,—­I lost my head.  I’m sure you don’t think me capable of really mean feelings?”

“But, old man,” put in the artist, in a half pained voice, “what the deuce does it all mean?  Tell us the whole story, do.”

Will told it, jestingly, effectively.

“I was quite sure,” sounded, at the close, in Rosamund’s voice of tender sympathy, “that you had some noble motive.  I said so at once to Bertha.”

“I suppose,” said Will, “Miss Cross will never dare to enter the shop again?”

“She doesn’t come!”

“Never since,” he answered laughingly.  “Her mother has been once or twice, and seems to regard me with a very suspicious eye.  Mrs. Cross was told no doubt?”

“That I really can’t say,” replied Rosamund, averting her eyes.  “But doesn’t it do one good to hear such a story, Norbert?” she added impulsively.

“Yes, that’s pluck,” replied her husband, with the old spontaneity, in his eyes the old honest look which hitherto had somehow been a little obscured.  “I know very well that I couldn’t have done it.”  Warburton had not looked at Rosamund since her explanation and apology.  He was afraid of meeting her eyes; afraid as a generous man who shrinks from inflicting humiliation.  For was it conceivable that Rosamund could support his gaze without feeling humiliated?  Remembering what had preceded that discovery at the shop; bearing in mind what had followed upon it; he reflected with astonishment on the terms of her self-reproach.  It sounded so genuine; to the ears of her husband it must have been purest, womanliest sincerity.  As though she could read his thoughts, Rosamund addressed him again in the most naturally playful tone.

“And you have been in the Basque country since we saw you.  I’m so glad you really took your holiday there at last; you often used to speak of doing so.  And you met my sister—­Winifred wrote to me all about it.  The Coppingers were delighted to see you.  Don’t you think them nice people?  Did poor Mrs. Coppinger seem any better?”

In spite of himself, Will encountered her look, met the beautiful eyes, felt their smile envelop him.  Never till now had he known the passive strength of woman, that characteristic which at times makes her a force of Nature rather than an individual being.  Amazed, abashed, he let his head fall—­and mumbled something about Mrs. Coppinger’s state of health.