“Oh, impossible!  You cannot think how the servants eat; and they won’t touch our home-made bread.”

“The fools!  Why?”

“Oh, because they think it costs us less.  Servants seem to me always to hate the people whose bread they eat.”

“More likely it is their vanity.  Nothing that is not paid for before their eyes seems good enough for them.  Well, dear, the bakers will revenge us.  But is there any other item we could reduce?  Dress?”

“Dress!  Why, I spend nothing.”

“Forty-five pounds this year.”

“Well, I shall want none next year.”

“Well, then, Rosa, as there is nothing we can reduce, I must write more, and take more fees, or we shall be in the wrong box.  Only eight hundred and sixty pounds left of our little capital; and, mind, we have not another shilling in the world.  One comfort, there is no debt.  We pay ready money for everything.”

Rosa colored a little, but said nothing.

Staines did his part nobly.  He read; he wrote; he paced the yard.  He wore his old clothes in the house; he took off his new ones when he came in.  He was all genius, drudgery, patience.

How Phoebe Dale would have valued him, co-operated with him, and petted him, if she had had the good luck to be his wife!

The season came back, and with it Miss Lucas, towing a brilliant bride, Mrs. Vivian, young, rich, pretty, and gay, with a waist you could span, and athirst for pleasure.

This lady was the first that ever made Rosa downright jealous.  She seemed to have everything the female heart could desire; and she was No. 1 with Miss Lucas this year.  Now, Rosa was No. 1 last season, and had weakly imagined that was to last forever.  But Miss Lucas had always a sort of female flame, and it never lasted two seasons.

Rosa did not care so very much for Miss Lucas before, except as a convenient friend; but now she was mortified to tears at finding Miss Lucas made more fuss with another than with her.

This foolish feeling spurred her to attempt a rivalry with Mrs. Vivian, in the very things where rivalry was hopeless.

Miss Lucas gave both ladies tickets for a flower-show, where all the great folk were to be, princes and princesses, etc.

“But I have nothing to wear,” sighed Rosa.

“Then you must get something, and mind it is not pink, please; for we must not clash in colors.  You know I’m dark, and pink becomes me. (The selfish young brute was not half so dark as Rosa.) Mine is coming from Worth’s, in Paris, on purpose.  And this new Madame Cie, of Regent Street, has such a duck of a bonnet, just come from Paris.  She wanted to make me one from it; but I told her I would have none but the pattern bonnet—­and she knows very well she can’t pass a copy off on me.  Let me drive you up there, and you can see mine, and order one, if you like it.”

“Oh, thank you! let me just run and speak to my husband first.”