Winifred Elvan, since her father’s death, had found an engagement as governess in an English family at St. Jean de Luz.  This, in the younger sister’s eyes, involved a social decline, more disagreeable to her than she chose to confess.

“The one thing,” pursued Rosamund, “that I really dread, is the commonplace.  If I were utterly, wretchedly, grindingly poor, there’d be at all events a savour of the uncommon about it.  I can’t imagine myself marrying a prosperous shopkeeper; but if I cared for a clerk who had nothing but a pound a week, I would marry him to-morrow.”

“The result,” said Bertha, “might be lamentably commonplace.”

“Not if it was the right sort of man.—­Tell me what you think of that bit.”  She pointed to a framed drawing.  “It’s in the valley of Bidassoa.”

They talked art for a little, then Rosamund fell into musing, and presently said: 

“Don’t you think Norbert has behaved very well.”

“How well?”

“I mean, it would have been excusable, perhaps, if he had betrayed a little unkind feeling toward me.  But nothing of the kind, absolutely nothing.  I’m afraid I didn’t give him credit for so much manliness.  When he came to Ashtead the second time, of course I understood his motive at once.  He wished to show me that his behaviour at the first meeting wasn’t mere bravado and to assure me that I needn’t be afraid of him.  There’s a great deal of delicacy in that; it really pleased me.”

Bertha Cross was gazing at her friend with a puzzled smile.

“You’re a queer girl,” she remarked.

“Queer?  Why?”

“Do you mean that you were really and truly surprised that Mr. Franks behaved like a gentleman?”

“Oh, Bertha!” protested the other.  “What a word!”

“Well, like a man, then.”

“Perhaps I oughtn’t to have felt that,” admitted Rosamund thoughtfully.  “But I did, and it meant a good deal.  It shows how very right I was when I freed myself.”

“Are you quite sure of that?” asked Bertha, raising her eyebrows and speaking more seriously than usual.

“I never was more sure of anything.”

“Do you know, I can’t help thinking it an argument on the other side.”

Rosamund looked her friend in the eyes.

“Suppose it means that you were altogether mistaken about Mr. Franks?” went on Bertha, in the same pleasant tone between jest and earnest.

“I wasn’t mistaken in my own feeling,” said Rosamund in her melodious undertone.

“No; but your feeling, you have always said, was due to a judgment you formed of Mr. Franks’ character and motives.  And now you confess that it looks very much as if you had judged him wrongly.”

Rosamund smiled and shook her head.

“Do you know,” asked Bertha, after a pause, “that he has been coming to our house lately?”

“You never mentioned it.  But why shouldn’t he go to your house?”