Tired and sullen after the journey home from the seaside, Mrs. Cross kept her room. In the little bay-windowed parlour, Bertha Cross and Rosamund Elvan sat talking confidentially.
"Now, do confess," urged she of the liquid eyes and sentimental accent. "This is a little plot of yours--all in kindness, of course. You thought it best--you somehow brought him to it?"
Half laughing, Bertha shook her head.
"I haven't seen him for quite a long time. And do you really think this kind of plotting is in my way? It would as soon have occurred to me to try and persuade Mr. Franks to join the fire-brigade."
"Bertha! You don't mean anything by that? You don't think I am a danger to him?"
"No, no, no! To tell you the truth, I have tried to think just as little about it as possible, one way or the ot
