Christopher and Rosa talked this over in the room whilst the men were looking out their purchases.  “Come,” said Rosa; “now I forgive him sneering at me; his heart is not really hard, you see.”  Staines, on the contrary, was very angry.  “What!” he cried, “pity a boy who made one bad bargain, that, after all, was not a very bad bargain; and he had no kindness, nor even common humanity, for my beautiful Rosa, inexperienced as a child, and buying for her husband, like a good, affectionate, honest creature, amongst a lot of sharpers and hard-hearted cynics—­like himself.”

“It was cruel of him,” said Rosa, altering her mind in a moment, and half inclined to cry.

This made Christopher furious.  “The ill-natured, crotchety, old—­the fact is, he is a misogynist.”

“Oh, the wretch!” said Rosa warmly.  “And what is that?”

“A woman-hater.”

“Oh! is that all?  Why, so do I—­after that Florence Cole.  Women are mean, heartless things.  Give me men; they are loyal and true.”

“All of them?” inquired Christopher, a little satirically.  “Read the papers.”

“Every soul of them,” said Mrs. Staines, passing loftily over the proposed test.  “That is, all the ones I care about; and that is my own, own one.”

Disagreeable creatures to have about one—­these simpletons!

Mrs. Staines took Christopher to shops to buy the remaining requisites:  and in three days more the house was furnished, two female servants engaged, and the couple took their luggage over to the Bijou.

Rosa was excited and happy at the novelty of possession and authority, and that close sense of house proprietorship which belongs to woman.  By dinner-time she could have told you how many shelves there were in every cupboard, and knew the Bijou by heart in a way that Christopher never knew it.  All this ended, as running about and excitement generally does, with my lady being exhausted, and lax with fatigue.  So then he made her lie down on a little couch, while he went through his accounts.

When he had examined all the bills carefully he looked very grave, and said, “Who would believe this?  We began with three thousand pounds.  It was to last us several years—­till I got a good practice.  Rosa, there is only fourteen hundred and forty pounds left.”

“Oh, impossible!” said Rosa.  “Oh, dear! why did I ever enter a saleroom?”

“No, no, my darling; you were bitten once or twice, but you made some good bargains too.  Remember there was four hundred pounds set apart for my life policy.”

“What a waste of money!”

“Your father did not think so.  Then the lease; the premium; repairs of the drains that would have poisoned my Rosa; turning the coach-house into a dispensary; painting, papering, and furnishing; china, and linen, and everything to buy.  We must look at this seriously.  Only fourteen hundred and forty pounds left.  A slow profession.  No friends.  I have quarrelled with Uncle Philip:  you with Mrs. Cole; and her husband would have launched me.”