“Twelve.”

“Thirteen.”

“Fourteen.”

“Sixteen.”

“Eighteen.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty guineas.”

“It is yours, my faithful friend,” said Rosa, turning suddenly round to Mrs. Cole, with a magnificent glance no one would have thought her capable of.

Then she rose and stalked away.

Dumfounded for the moment, Mrs. Cole followed her, and stopped her at the door.

“Why, Rosie dear, it is the only thing I have bid for.  There I’ve sat by your side like a mouse.”

Rosa turned gravely towards her.  “You know it is not that.  You had only to tell me you wanted it.  I would never have been so mean as to bid against you.”

“Mean, indeed!” said.  Florence, tossing her head.

“Yes, mean; to draw back and hide behind the friend you were with, and employ the very rogue she had turned off.  But it is my own fault.  Cecilia warned me against you.  She always said you were a treacherous girl.”

“And I say you are an impudent little minx.  Only just married, and going about like two vagabonds, and talk to me like that!”

“We are not going about like two vagabonds.  We have taken a house in Mayfair.”

“Say a stable.”

“It was by your advice, you false-hearted creature.”

“You are a fool.”

“You are worse; you are a traitress.”

“Then don’t you have anything to do with me.”

“Heaven forbid I should, you treacherous thing!”

“You insolent—­insolent—­I hate you.”

“And I despise you.”

“I always hated you at bottom.”

“That’s why you pretended to love me, you wretch.”

“Well, I pretend no more.  I am your enemy for life.”

“Thank you.  You have told the truth for once in your life.”

“I have.  And he shall never call in your husband; so you may leave Mayfair as soon as you like.”

“Not to please you, madam.  We can get on without traitors.”

And so they parted, with eyes that gleamed like tigers.

Rosa drove home in great agitation, and tried to tell Christopher; but choked, and became hysterical.  The husband-physician coaxed and scolded her out of that; and presently in came Uncle Philip, full of the humors of the auction-room.  He told about the little boy with a delight that disgusted Mrs. Staines, and then was particularly merry on female friendships.  “Fancy a man going to a sale with his friend, and bidding against him on the sly.”

“She is no friend of mine.  We are enemies for life.”

“And you were to be friends till death,” said Staines, with a sigh.

Philip inquired who she was.

“Mrs. John Cole.”

“Not of Curzon Street?”

“Yes.”

“And you have quarrelled with her?”

“Yes.”

“Well, but her husband is a general practitioner.”