She bid on, but in fear and trembling, because of those twinkling eyes.  At last she mustered courage, wrote on a leaf of her pocket-book, and passed it down to him:  “It would be only kind to warn me.  What am I doing wrong?”

He sent her back a line directly:  “Auctioneer running you up himself.  Follow his eye when he bids; you will see there is no bona fide bidder at your prices.”

Rosa did so, and found that it was true.

She nodded to Uncle Philip; and, with her expressive face, asked him what she should do.

The old boy must have his joke.  So he wrote back:  “Tell him, as you see he has a fancy for certain articles, you would not be so discourteous as to bid against him.”

The next article but one was a drawing-room suite Rosa wanted; but the auctioneer bid against her; so at eighteen pounds she stopped.

“It is against you, madam,” said the auctioneer.

“Yes, sir,” said Rosa; “but as you are the only bidder, and you have been so kind to me, I would not think of opposing you.”

The words were scarcely out of her mouth, when they were greeted with a roar of Homeric laughter that literally shook the room, and this time not at the expense of the innocent speaker.

“That’s into your mutton, governor.”

“Sharp’s the word this time.”

“I say, governor, don’t you want a broker to bid for ye?”

“Wink at me next time, sir; I’ll do the office for you.”

“No greenhorns left now.”

“That lady won’t give a ten-pund note for her grandfather’s armchair.”

“Oh, yes, she will, if it’s stuffed with banknotes.”

“Put the next lot up with the owner’s name and the reserve price.  Open business.”

“And sing a psalm at starting.”

“A little less noise in Judaea, if you please,” said the auctioneer, who had now recovered from the blow.  “Lot 97.”

This was a very pretty marqueterie cabinet; it stood against the wall, and Rosa had set her heart upon it.  Nobody would bid.  She had muzzled the auctioneer effectually.

“Your own price.”

“Two pounds,” said Rosa.

A dealer offered guineas; and it advanced slowly to four pounds and half a crown, at which it was about to be knocked down to Rosa, when suddenly a new bidder arose in the broker Rosa had rejected.  They bid slowly and sturdily against each other, until a line was given to Rosa from Uncle Philip.

“This time it is your own friend, the snipe-nosed woman.  She telegraphed a broker.”

Rosa read, and crushed the note.  “Six guineas,” said she.

“Six-ten.”

“Seven.”

“Seven-ten.”

“Eight.”

“Eight-ten.”

“Ten guineas,” said Rosa; and then, with feminine cunning, stealing a sudden glance, caught her friend leaning back and signalling the broker not to give in.

“Eleven pounds.”