“Sir, I am to go home to my father, if he will be troubled with me.  I have written to him.”

“And what is to become of the Bijou?”

“My Christie thought I should like to part with it, and the furniture—­but his own writing-desk and his chair, no, I never will, and his little clock.  Oh! oh! oh!—­But I remember what you said about agents, and I don’t know what to do; for I shall be away.”

“Then, leave it to me.  I’ll come and live here with one servant; and I’ll soon sell it for you.”

“You, Uncle Philip!”

“Well, why not?” said he roughly.

“That will be a great trouble and discomfort to you, I’m afraid.”

“If I find it so, I’ll soon drop it.  I’m not the fool to put myself out for anybody.  When you are ready to go out, send me word, and I’ll come in.”

Soon after this he bustled off.  He gave her a sort of hurried kiss at parting, as if he was ashamed of it, and wanted it over as quickly as possible.

Next day her father came, condoled with her politely, assured her there was nothing to cry about; husbands were a sort of functionaries that generally went to sea at some part of their career, and no harm ever came of it.  On the contrary, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” said this judicious parent.

This sentiment happened to be just a little too true, and set the daughter crying bitterly.  But she fought against it.  “Oh no!” said she, “I mustn’t.  I will not be always crying in Kent Villa.”

“Lord forbid!”

“I shall get over it in time—­a little.”

“Why, of course you will.  But as to your coming to Kent Villa, I am afraid you would not be very comfortable there.  You know I am superannuated.  Only got my pension now.”

“I know that, papa:  and—­why, that is one of the reasons.  I have a good income now; and I thought if we put our means together”—­

“Oh, that is a very different thing.  You will want a carriage, I suppose.  I have put mine down.”

“No carriage; no horse; no footman; no luxury of any kind till my Christie comes back.  I abhor dress; I abhor expense; I loathe everything I once liked too well; I detest every folly that has parted us; and I hate myself worst of all.  Oh! oh! oh!  Forgive me for crying so.”

“Well, I dare say there are associations about this place that upset you.  I shall go and make ready for you, dear; and then you can come as soon as you like.”

He bestowed a paternal kiss on her brow, and glided doucely away before she could possibly cry again.

The very next week Rosa was at Kent Villa, with the relics of her husband about her; his chair, his writing-table, his clock, his waste-paper basket, a very deep and large one.  She had them all in her bedroom at Kent Villa.

Here the days glided quietly but heavily.