“And it was to please her we settled here.  Oh, I could kill her:  nasty cat!”

“Never mind; it is not a case for despondency, but it is for prudence.  All we have to do is to look the thing in the face, and be very economical in everything.  I had better give you an allowance for housekeeping; and I earnestly beg you to buy things yourself whilst you are a poor man’s wife, and pay ready money for everything.  My mother was a great manager, and she always said, ’There is but one way:  be your own market-woman, and pay on the spot; never let the tradesmen get you on their books, or, what with false weight, double charges, and the things your servants order that never enter the house, you lose more than a hundred a year by cheating.’”

Rosa yielded a languid assent to this part of his discourse, and it hardly seemed to enter her mind; but she raised no objection; and in due course he made her a special allowance for housekeeping.

It soon transpired that medical advice was to be had, gratis, at the Bijou, from eight till ten:  and there was generally a good attendance.  But a week passed, and not one patient came of the class this couple must live by.  Christopher set this down to what people call “the transition period:”  his Kent patients had lost him; his London patients not found him.  He wrote to all his patients in the country, and many of his pupils at the university, to let them know where he was settled:  and then he waited.

Not a creature came.

Rosa bore this very well for a time, so long as the house was a novelty; but when that excitement was worn out, she began to be very dull, and used to come and entice him out to walk with her:  he would look wistfully at her, but object that, if he left the house, he should be sure to lose a patient.

“Oh, they won’t come any more for our staying in—­tiresome things!” said Rosa.

But Christopher would kiss her, and remain firm.  “My love,” said he, “you do not realize how hard a fight there is before us.  How should you?  You are very young.  No, for your sake, I must not throw a chance away.  Write to your female friends:  that will while away an hour or two.”

“What, after that Florence Cole?”

“Write to those who have not made such violent professions.”

“So I will, dear.  Especially to those that are married and come to London.  Oh, and I’ll write to that cold-blooded thing, Lady Cicely Treherne.  Why do you shake your head?”

“Did I?  I was not aware.  Well, dear, if ladies of rank were to come here, I fear they might make you discontented with your lot.”

“All the women on earth could not do that.  However, the chances are she will not come near me:  she left the school quite a big girl, an immense girl, when I was only twelve.  She used to smile at my capriccios; and once she kissed me—­actually.  She was an awful Sawny, though, and so affected:  I think I will write to her.”