Not that Miss Elvan represented herself as happy.  In her very first letter she besought Bertha not to suppose that her appreciation of strange and beautiful things meant forgetfulness of what must be a lifelong sorrow.  “I am often worse than depressed.  I sleep very badly, and in the night I often shed wretched tears.  Though I did only what conscience compelled me to do, I suffer all the miseries of remorse.  And how can I wish that it should be otherwise?  It is better, surely, to be capable of such suffering, than to go one’s way in light-hearted egoism.  I’m not sure that I don’t sometimes encourage despondency.  You can understand that?  I know you can, dear Bertha, for many a time I have detected the deep feeling which lies beneath your joking way.”  Passages such as this Bertha was careful to omit when reading from the letters to her mother.  Mrs. Cross took very little interest in her daughter’s friend, and regarded the broken engagement with no less disapproval than surprise; but it would have gravely offended her if Bertha had kept this correspondence altogether to herself.

“I suppose,” she remarked, on one such occasion, “we shall never again see Mr. Franks.”

“He would find it rather awkward to call, no doubt,” replied Bertha.

“I shall never understand it!” Mrs. Cross exclaimed, in a vexed tone, after thinking awhile.  “No doubt there’s something you keep from me.”

“About Rosamund?  Nothing whatever, I assure you, mother.”

“Then you yourself don’t know all, that’s quite certain.”

Mrs. Cross had made the remark many times, and always with the same satisfaction.  Her daughter was content that the discussion should remain at this point; for the feeling that she had said something at once unpleasant and unanswerable made Mrs. Cross almost good humoured for at least an hour.

Few were the distressful lady’s sources of comfort, but one sure way of soothing her mind and temper, was to suggest some method of saving money, no matter how little.  One day in the winter, Bertha passing along the further part of Fulham Road, noticed a new-looking grocer’s, the window full of price tickets, some of them very attractive to a housekeeper’s eye; on returning home she spoke of this, mentioning figures which moved her mother to a sour effervescence of delight.  The shop was rather too far away for convenience, but that same evening Mrs. Cross went to inspect it, and came back quite flurried with what she had seen.

“I shall most certainly deal at Jollyman’s,” she exclaimed.  “What a pity we didn’t know of him before!  Such a gentlemanly man—­indeed, quite a gentleman.  I never saw a shopkeeper who behaved so nicely.  So different from Billings—­a man I have always thoroughly disliked, and his coffee has been getting worse and worse.  Mr. Jollyman is quite willing to send even the smallest orders.  Isn’t that nice of him—­such a distance!  Billings was quite insolent to me the day before yesterday, when I asked him to send; yet it was nearly a two-shilling order.  Never go into that shop again, Bertha.  It’s really quite a pleasure to buy of Mr. Jollyman; he knows how to behave; I really almost felt as if I was talking to some one of our own class.  Without his apron, he must be a thorough gentleman.”