“I really ought to go and look him up.”  Franks added.  “I keep on saying I’ll go to-morrow and to-morrow.  Any one else would think me an ungrateful snob; but old Warburton is too good a fellow.  To tell the truth, I feel a little ashamed when I think of how he’s living.  He ought to have a percentage on my income.  What would have become of me if he hadn’t put his hand into his pocket when he was well off and I was a beggar?”

“But don’t you think his business must be profitable?” asked Rosamund, her thoughts only half attentive to the subject.

“The old chap isn’t much of a business man, I fancy,” Franks answered with a smile.  “And he has his mother and sister to support.  And no doubt he’s always giving away money.  His lodgings are miserable.  It makes me uncomfortable to go there.  Suppose we ask him to lunch on Sunday?”

Rosamund reflected for a moment.

“If you like—­I had thought of asking the Fitzjames girls.”

“You don’t think we might have him at the same time?”

Rosamund pursed her lips a little, averting her eyes as she answered: 

“Would he care for it?  And he said—­didn’t he?—­that he meant to tell everybody, everywhere, how he earned his living.  Wouldn’t it be just a little—?”

Franks laughed uneasily.

“Yes, it might be just a little—.  Well, he must come and see the picture quietly.  And I’ll go and look up the poor old fellow to-night, I really will.”

This time, the purpose was carried out.  Franks returned a little after midnight, and was surprised to find Rosamund sitting in the studio.  A friend had looked in late in the evening, she said, and had stayed talking.

“All about her husband’s pictures, so tiresome?  She thinks them monuments of genius!”

“His last thing isn’t half bad,” said Franks, good-naturedly.

“Perhaps not.  Of course I pretended to think him the greatest painter of modern times.  Nothing else will satisfy the silly little woman.  You found Mr. Warburton?”

Franks nodded, smiling mysteriously.

“I have news for you.”

Knitting her brows a little his wife looked interrogation.

“He’s going to be married.  Guess to whom.”

“Not to—?”

“Well—?”

“Bertha Cross—?”

Again Franks nodded and laughed.  An odd smile rose to his wife’s lips; she mused for a moment, then asked: 

“And what position has he got?”

“Position?  His position behind the counter, that’s all.  Say’s he shan’t budge.  By the bye, his mother died last autumn; he’s in easier circumstances; the shop does well, it seems.  He thought of trying for something else, but talked it over with Bertha Cross, and they decided to stick to groceries.  They’ll live in the house at Walham Green.  Mrs. Cross is going away—­to keep house for a brother of hers.”

Rosamund heaved a sigh, murmuring: