Under Mr. Rickman’s waistcoat there was the least little ghost of a quiver.  He had not loved Miss Bramble; but Miss Bramble had loved him.  She had loved him because he was young, and because he had sometimes repeated to her the little dinner-table jests that she was too deaf to hear.

Last of the three, very grave and demure, came Flossie, and she, like her friend, carried her gift uncovered.  She proffered it with her most becoming air of correctness and propriety.  It was a cabinet photograph of herself in her best attitude, her best mood and her best blue blouse.  It was framed beautifully and appropriately in white silk, embroidered with blue forget-me-nots by Flossie’s clever hands.  She had sat up half the night to finish it.  He took it gently from her and looked at it for what seemed to Flossie an excessively long time.  He was trying to think of something particularly pretty and suitable to say.  In his absorption he did not notice that he was alone with her, that as Flossie advanced Spinks and Soper had withdrawn.

“I don’t know whether you’ll care for it,” said she.  She was standing very close beside him, and her face under the gas-light looked pale and tender.

“Of course I’ll care for it.”  He laid her gift on the table beside the others and stood contemplating them.  She saw him smile.  He was smiling at the bed-socks.

“You are all much too good to me, you know.”

“Oh, Mr. Rickman, you’ve been so awfully good to me.”

He looked round a little anxiously and perceived that they were alone.

“No, Flossie,” he said, “I’ve not been good to anyone, I’m not very good to myself.  All the same, I’m not an utter brute; I shan’t forget you.”

Flossie’s eyes had followed, almost jealously, the movement of his hand in putting down her gift; and they had rested there, fixed on her own portrait, and veiled by their large white lids.  She now raised them suddenly, and over their black profundity there moved a curious golden glitter that flashed full on his face.

“You didn’t remember me, much, last time you went away.”

“I didn’t remember anybody, Flossie; I had too much to think of.”

It struck him that this was the first time she had looked him full in the face; but it did not strike him that it was also the first time that he had found himself alone in a room with her, though they had been together many times out of doors and in crowded theatres and concert halls.  Her look conveyed some accusation that he at first failed to understand.  And then there came into his mind the promise he had made to her at Easter, to take her to the play, the promise broken without apology or explanation.  So she still resented it, did she?  Poor little Flossie, she was so plump and pretty, and she had been so dependent on him for the small pleasures of her life.

“You’re always thinking,” said Flossie, and laughed.

“I’m sorry, Flossie; it’s a disgusting habit, I own.  I’ll make up for it some day.  We’ll do a lot of theatres and—­and things together, when my ship comes in.”