Walking with bent head, Will reflected.

“Do you know Camberwell?” he asked.  “There are good little corners—­”

“I don’t know it at all.  Could you—­I’m afraid to ask.  You couldn’t spare time—?”

“Oh yes, easily.  That’s to say, during certain hours.”

“On Monday say?  In the afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“How kind of you!” murmured Rosamund.  “If I were only an amateur, amusing myself, I couldn’t give you the trouble; but it’s serious I must earn money before long.  You see, there’s nothing else I can do.  My sister—­you know I have a sister?—­she has taken to teaching; she’s at St. Jean de Luz.  But I’m no use for anything of that kind.  I must be independent.  Why do you smile?”

“Not at you, but at myself.  I used to say the same thing.  But I had no talent of any kind, and when the smash came—­”

They were crossing the bridge.  Will looked westward, in the direction of his shop, and it struck him how amusing it would be to startle Rosamund by a disclosure of his social status.  Would she still be anxious for his company in search of the picturesque?  He could not feel sure—­curiosity urged him to try the experiment, but an obscure apprehension closed his lips.

“How very hard for you!” sighed Rosamund.  “But don’t think,” she added quickly, “that I have a weak dread of poverty.  Not at all!  So long as one can support oneself.  Nowadays, when every one strives and battles for money, there’s a distinction in doing without it.”

Five minutes more, and they were in Oakley Crescent.  Rosamund paused before reaching the house in which she dwelt, took the camp-stool from her companion, and offered her hand for good-bye.  Only then did Warburton become aware that he had said nothing since that remark of hers about poverty; he had walked in a dream.

CHAPTER 32

August came, and Strangwyn, the great whisky distiller, was yet alive.  For very shame, Will kept his thoughts from that direction.  The gloomy mood had again crept upon him, in spite of all his reasons for hope; his sleep became mere nightmare, and his day behind the counter a bilious misery.

Since the occasion last recorded, Bertha Cross had not been to the shop.  One day, the order was brought by a servant; a week later, Mrs. Cross herself appeared.  The querulous lady wore a countenance so nearly cheerful that Warburton regarded her uneasily.  She had come to purchase tea, and remarked that it was for use during a seaside holiday; you could never depend on the tea at seaside places.  Perhaps, thought Will, the prospect of change sufficed to explain her equanimity.  But for the rest of the day he was so glum and curt, that Allchin frequently looked at him with pained remonstrance.

At home, he found a telegram on his table.  He clutched at it, rent the envelope.  But no; it was not what he expected.  Norbert Franks asked him to look in that evening.  So, weary and heartsick as he was, he took the train to Notting Hill Gate.