“You called about the nurse, I conclude, Miss—­Holabird?”

“Yes, ma’am; I thought you had some questions you wished to ask, and that I had better come myself.  I have her with me, in the carriage.”

“Thank you,” said Madam Mucklegrand, politely.

But it was rather a de haut en bas politeness; she exercised it also toward her footman.

Then followed inquiries about age, and health, and character.  Rosamond told all she knew, clearly and sufficiently, with some little sympathetic touches that she could not help, in giving her story.

Madam Mucklegrand met her nowhere, however, on any common ground; she passed over all personal interest; instead of two women befriending a third in her need, who in turn was to give life to a little child waiting helplessly for some such ministry, it might have been the leasing of a house, or the dealing about some merchandise, that was between them.

Rosamond proposed, at last, to send Jane Jopson in.

Jane and her baby were had in, and had up-stairs; the physician and attending nurse pronounced upon her; she was brought down again, to go home and dispose of her child, and return.  Rosamond, meanwhile, had been sitting under the marble Jove.

There was nothing really rude in it; she was there on business; what more could she expect?  But then she knew all the time, that she too was a lady, and was taking trouble to do a kind thing.  It was not so that Madam Mucklegrand would have been treated at Westover.

Rosamond was feeling pretty proud by the time Madam Mucklegrand came down stairs.

“We have engaged the young woman:  the doctor quite approves; she will return without delay, I hope?”

As if Rosamond were somehow responsible all through.

“I have no doubt she will; good morning, madam.”

“Good morning.  I am, really, very much obliged.  You have been of great service.”

Rosamond turned quietly round upon the threshold.

“That was what I was very anxious to be,” she said, in her perfectly sweet and musical voice,—­“to the poor woman.”

Italics would indicate too coarsely the impalpable emphasis she put upon the last two words.  But Mrs. Mucklegrand caught it.

Rosamond went away quite as sure of her own self-respect as ever, but very considerably cured of Spreadsplendidism.

This was but one phase of it, she knew; there are real folks, also, in Spreadsplendid Park; they are a good deal covered up, there, to be sure; but they can’t help that.  It is what always happens to somebody when Pyramids are built.  Madam Mucklegrand herself was, perhaps, only a good deal covered up.

How lovely it was to go down into Orchard Street after that, and take tea with Miss Craydocke!  How human and true it seemed,—­the friendliness that shone and breathed there, among them all.  How kingdom-of-heaven-like the air was, and into what pleasantness of speech it was born!