One warm, beautiful morning, early in April, Rose was toiling rather wearily up the long flight of stone steps leading to the flat. She had her violin, and she found it heavy. She was wishing she had Tom with her to carry it.

Though Rose had not yet confessed it to herself, she was beginning to be a little homesick. She missed the delicious freshness of Woodcote, its wide rooms and sunny gardens, the thousand and one little comforts she had been too accustomed to to notice; but more, far, far more, she missed the protecting fondness that had surrounded her all her life. It was only a fortnight since she joined Pauline, but it seemed much longer. And June seemed a very long way off.

But she was looking forward to a great treat that afternoon. Paderewski was playing at St. James’s Hall, and she and Pauline were going early to get seats. They would have to wait two hours or so, and might have to stand after all, but to Rose that was part of the afternoon’s enjoyment. She had quite agreed with Pauline that it would be foolish to go to the expense of taking their tickets beforehand. She opened the door with her latch-key—that latch-key still gave her a thrill of proud delight when she used it—and went in.

Pauline called to her from her room.

“Rosie, is that you, dearest? I want to speak to you.”

Rose put down her violin and crossed the tiny entry. Pauline was standing before her looking-glass doing her hair. She wore a soiled pink dressing-jacket elaborately trimmed with lace, and Rose observed with a little shock that there were holes in the heels of her stockings. It was not quite such a shock as it would have been a fortnight ago. Rose had discovered that Pauline was very careless about little matters of this sort. On the bed was spread out her last new dress—a charming combination of brown and gold, to be worn with a brown hat lined with yellow.

“Why, Pauline, you won’t wear that dress this afternoon, will you?” asked Rose, glancing at it. “It will get so crushed.”

“My Rose, shall you be very disappointed? Madame Verney has asked me to go with her. She had two tickets sent her, and Monsieur Verney had to go to Paris this morning. I am going there to lunch. How I wish you were going with me, darling! But I could not refuse when Madame Verney asked me, could I? I might have offended her.”

The tears had rushed into Rose’s eyes, but she drove them back. “I daresay Paderewski will play again before I go,” she said. “And it was kind of Madame Verney to ask you.”

“Oh, as to kindness, she would have found it dull enough to go by herself, and she knows nobody in London yet. But what do you mean about Paderewski playing again, Rosie? You’ll go and hear him this afternoon, won’t you? I never thought of your staying at home.”

“I promised Aunt Lucy I would not go to a concert by myself,” Rose answered hastily. “I couldn’t go, Pauline.”

“But she meant in the evening, Rosie. She couldn’t mind your going this afternoon. Don’t be a silly child. You’ll spoil my pleasure if you stay at home. Of course you must go.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” returned Rose. “I promised Aunt Lucy. Besides”—

“You little country mouse!” laughed Pauline. “I believe you are afraid to go. Who do you think would eat you? Never mind, there is ‘The Golden Legend’ at the Albert Hall on Thursday. We’ll go to that. But I must be quick; I promised to be there early. Rosie, be my good angel, and clean my shoes for me. You’ll find the stuff in that box. I can’t trust Mrs. Richards with my kid shoes. No, not that box, darling, the one below it.”

Rose, who was delicately fastidious about all her own belongings, could never understand how Pauline allowed her room to be so untidy, and as she opened the box and took out the pot of polish she blushed to find herself thinking of Aunt Dinah and her kitchen drawers in Uncle Tom’s Cabin. She took the boots away and cleaned them, and brought them back.

“Mrs. Richards isn’t in the kitchen, Pauline. She hasn’t gone, has she?”

“Poor dear little Rosie! Was she afraid she was going to be left all alone?” laughed Pauline. “She has only gone to get me a hansom, dear. I shall spoil my dress if I go by omnibus, and it is too far to walk. Have you five shillings in your purse you can lend me? I am hard up till the end of the term.”

Rose produced the five shillings, which was not by any means the first loan Pauline had asked for. She hated herself for feeling so hurt and angry with her friend, and she was glad to lend her the money she wanted. Life would become quite intolerable in the flat if she was going to lose her belief in Pauline.

“Won’t you think better of it and go to the concert?” Pauline said, when she was ready to start. “It is really silly of you to stay at home, dearest. I wouldn’t have accepted Madame Verney’s invitation if I had thought you would not go. But you see how it is, don’t you? Her cousin is at the French Embassy, and she is sure to get to know a lot of people. She may introduce me to a great many pupils.”

This sounded reasonable, and Pauline’s voice was most kind and caressing, yet somehow the hurt feeling remained in Rose’s heart. She saw that Pauline was delighted to go. She did not really care in the least about her disappointment. “He will be sure to play again,” she answered, “I shall go for a walk in the Park. What time shall you be back, Pauline?”

Pauline hesitated. “Don’t expect me till the evening, darling. Madame Verney spoke about my going back with her to tea. Shall you be very lonely? I never used to trouble about Clare. She went her way, and I went mine. And”—

“You need not trouble about me,” Rose flashed out, her colour rising. “I should be sorry to spoil your afternoon, Pauline.”

Pauline looked at her with grieved eyes. “It will make me most miserable if I leave you angry with me. Don’t you know that I would far, far rather have gone with you? Rosie, you know that, don’t you?”

But Rose had a stubborn love of truth, which prevented her from responding to this appeal as Pauline wished.

“It would have been a pity for you to refuse Madame Verney,” she said. “And I shall have a nice afternoon. I will make some cakes, I think. I want to astonish Aunt Lucy and Wilmot when I go home. I shall make Wilmot let me make Tom’s birthday cake.”

Pauline patted her cheek. “What a child you are still, Rosie! When you have been a month or two in London, you will find yourself growing up. But I must start. How does this dress suit me? Do you think there is just a little too much yellow about it?”

Rose could frankly say that the dress was perfect. She had never seen Pauline look better. But she could not help hoping that she had changed her stockings as she watched her run lightly down the stairs to the hansom.

She felt very downhearted as she closed the door and went back to the sitting-room. The room was sweet with the primroses and white violets they had sent her from Woodcote the day before. Rose felt herself pitying the flowers for being taken from the woods and sent to wither in that stifling air. For it was stifling this afternoon. Even when she threw open the window, no breath of coolness came to fan her burning face. The sky was cloudless, but yellow with smoke, and a dull haze hung over the river.

Rose thought of Woodcote, where the great chestnuts were already in full leaf, and the gorse common beyond the wood was a sheet of gold. An intense longing took hold of her to go home, if only for an hour or two. She looked at her watch and saw that it was not yet one o’clock. There was plenty of time to go to Woodcote and get back before Pauline returned. And how joyfully surprised her aunt would be! She wondered she had not thought of it before.

An hour later she was in the train, speeding countrywards. She sat close to the window, looking eagerly at the green fields and the budding trees. She no longer felt disappointed about the concert. She was glad Madame Verney had invited Pauline to go with her.

Just outside the station for Woodcote the train came to a standstill. Rose from the window had a full view of the white road down the hillside, and as she looked along it she caught sight of an approaching carriage. It was a moment before she recognised the brown horses and the broad figure of old Harris, her aunt’s coachman. But directly afterwards she saw her aunt and Rhoda Sampson, and Tom seated opposite to them.

The road passed close to the high embankment on which the train was standing. If they had looked up, they must have seen her at the window. But they were too intent on their conversation. Rose heard Tom laugh at something Rhoda said, and saw him turn to Miss Merivale as if she too was enjoying the joke.

Rose could not see her aunt’s face, her parasol shaded it; but she was not leaning back against the cushions, as she usually did. She was bending a little forward, with her face turned towards Rhoda. It was quite plain to Rose that it was Miss Sampson who was absorbing the attention both of Tom and her aunt.

She stared after the carriage with angry, mystified eyes. It was her place Rhoda was sitting in! She forgot how the long drives her aunt loved used to bore her. She felt that Rhoda Sampson had no right to be sitting there, and it seemed to her positively cruel of her aunt and Tom to be so happy when she was away.

She was half inclined to go back by the next train when she heard from the stationmaster that they were gone to Guilford and would not be back till late. But on second thoughts she determined to go on to Woodcote. Wilmot would be there, at any rate. She would be able to find out how her aunt was.

She had the warmest of greetings from the old cook and housekeeper, whom she found at the linen press upstairs, carefully examining her store of lavender-scented linen.

“Your aunt will be dreadfully disappointed, Miss Rosie. What a pity you didn’t come a little earlier! You could ha’ gone to Guilford with them. They’ve gone about the new greenhouse Mr. Tom is going to build. But come down to the dining-room, my dearie, and I’ll get you some tea.”

“No, no; finish what you were about,” returned Rose, settling herself in the window-seat. The linen press stood on a wide landing that had a window looking on the garden. It had always been a favourite spot with Rose; in the deep-cushioned window-seat she had spent many a happy afternoon. The linen press was of old oak, almost as old as the house. And opposite it stood a finely-carved dower-chest with the date 1511 carved upon it. The landing-floor, like the stairs, was of polished oak, and the wainscoted walls had one or two old pictures on them.

Rose looked round her, feeling as she had never felt before the beauty of her home. How fresh it was, and roomy! And what a delicious scent of lavender came from the old linen press! “What are you doing, Wilmot? I wish you would let me help you.”

“No, thank you, my dearie. I’ve got what I wanted. It’s this tablecloth Miss Sampson is going to darn for me. She’s the cleverest young lady with her needle I ever came across, and that anxious to be useful.”

“Then you like her?” asked Rose. She could not help a certain stiffness getting into her voice when she mentioned Rhoda, though she was ready to laugh at herself for being jealous of her aunt’s companion.

“Nobody could help liking her, Miss Rosie. It’s just like having a bit o’ sunshine in the house. The mistress would ha’ missed you bad enough if she hadn’t had Miss Sampson to cheer her up. But nobody could feel lonely with her about. And it’s wonderful what she knows about a garden.”

“Do they have gardens in Australia?” asked Rose. It was the sort of remark Pauline might have made. But Rose was feeling very cross.

Wilmot did not notice the spitefulness in her voice. “They seem to have lovely gardens out there, my dearie. Miss Sampson was telling me of the different flowering trees they’ve got when she was in the kitchen on Tuesday. I’d promised to show her how to make those drop cakes you’re so fond of, Miss Rosie. But I’ll go and see about your tea. I wish you’d come this morning. The mistress was saying only yesterday that she was longing to see you.”

Rose went up to her room while tea was being made ready for her. It was all in perfect order, as if ready for her to take possession of it at any moment. There was even a vase of fresh primroses on the little table by the window. The room that had been prepared for Rhoda was next to it. The door stood partly open, and Rose could not forbear taking one look. It was only one look. She hurried on, feeling ashamed of her curiosity. But she got an impression of exquisite neatness and freshness, and by some odd working of the law of contrast it was Pauline’s room she thought of as she ran downstairs.

In the dining-room she noticed with jealous eyes how carefully the plants in the flower-stands before the windows had been tended, and with what care and skill the flowers on the table had been arranged. Wilmot hung round her at tea, pressing her to eat all sorts of dainties, and she could have easily learnt a great deal about Rhoda. The old servant seemed anxious to speak of her, anxious to impress Rose with her sweetness and goodness.

But Rose cut her short. She refused to interest herself in the stranger who in a few weeks’ time would pass out of their lives again. And she grew cross at last at Wilmot’s continual praises of her.

She went back by an earlier train than she had intended. She found that her aunt and the others would not return till dark; it was no good to wait for them.

She walked from Victoria to Chelsea along the Embankment, trying to convince herself that it was good to be in London. But her step flagged as she went up the stone stairs, and when she got to the flat and found that Pauline had not returned, a great flood of loneliness rushed over her. She put her flowers down on the table, and, covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.