“Rather, why should he?” asked Bertha, with a laugh.  “Don’t trouble to guess.  The reason was plain enough.  He came to talk about you.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the listener with amused deprecation.

“There’s no doubt of it; no—­shadow—­of—­doubt.  In fact, we’ve had very pleasant little chats about you.  Of course I said all the disagreeable things I could; I knew that was what you would wish.”

“Certainly,” fell from Rosamund.

“I didn’t positively calumniate you, but just the unpleasant little hints that a friend is so well able to throw out; the sort of thing likely to chill any one.  I hope you quite approve?”

“Quite.”

“Well, the odd thing was that they didn’t quite have the effect I aimed at.  He talked of you more and more, instead of less and less.  Wasn’t it provoking, Rosamund?”

Again their eyes encountered.

“I wish,” continued Miss Elvan, “I knew how much of this is truth, and how much Bertha’s peculiar humour.”

“It’s substantial truth.  That there may be humour in it, I don’t deny, but it isn’t of my importing.”

“When did he last come to see you?” Rosamund inquired.

“Let me see.  Just before he went to see you.”

“It doesn’t occur to you,” said Rosamund, slowly meditative, “that he had some other reason—­not the apparent one—­for coming to your house?”

“It doesn’t occur to me, and never will occur to me,” was Bertha’s amused answer.

When it was time for Bertha to walk home wards, Rosamund put her hat on, and they went out together.  Turning to the west, they passed along Cheyne Walk, and paused awhile by old Chelsea Church.  The associations of the neighbourhood moved Miss Elvan to a characteristic display of enthusiasm.  Delightful to live here!  A joy to work amid such memories, of ancient and of latter time!

“I must get Mr. Warburton to come and walk about Chelsea with me,” she added.

“Mr. Warburton?”

“He’s a great authority on London antiquities.  Bertha, if you happen to see Norbert these days, do ask him for Mr. Warburton’s address.”

“Why not ask your people at Ashtead?” said Bertha.

“I shan’t be going there for two or three weeks.  Promise to ask Norbert—­will you?  For me, of course.”

Bertha had turned to look at the river.  Her face wore a puzzled gravity.

“I’ll try to think of it,” she replied, walking slowly on.

“He’s a great mystery,” were Rosamund’s next words.  “My uncle has no idea what he does, and Norbert, they tell me, is just as ignorant, or at all events, professes to be.  Isn’t it a queer thing?  He came to grief in business two years ago, and since then he has lived out of sight.  Uncle Ralph supposes he had to take a clerk’s place somewhere, and that he doesn’t care to talk about it.”

“Is he such a snob?” asked Bertha, disinterestedly.

“No one would think so who knows him.  I’m convinced there’s some other explanation.”