Bertha could not restrain a laugh.

“How thoughtless of him to wear an apron at all!” she exclaimed merrily.  “Couldn’t one suggest to him discreetly, that but for the apron—­”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bertha!” interrupted her mother.  “You always make nonsense of what one says.  Mr. Jollyman is a shopkeeper, and it’s just because he doesn’t forget that, after all, that his behaviour is so good.  Do you remember that horrid Stokes, in King’s Road?  There was a man who thought himself too good for his business, and in reality was nothing but an underbred, impertinent creature.  I can hear his ’Yes, Mrs. Cross—­no, Mrs. Cross—­thank you, Mrs. Cross’—­and once, when I protested against an overcharge, he cried out, ‘Oh, my dear Mrs. Cross!’ The insolence of that man!  Now, Mr. Jollyman—­”

It was not long before Bertha had an opportunity of seeing this remarkable shopkeeper, and for once she was able to agree with her mother.  Mr. Jollyman bore very little resemblance to the typical grocer, and each visit to his shop strengthened Bertha’s suspicion that he had not grown up in this way of life.  It cost her some constraint to make a very small purchase of him, paying a few coppers, and still more when she asked him if he had nothing cheaper than this or that; all the more so that Mr. Jollyman seemed to share her embarrassment, lowering his voice as if involuntarily, and being careful not to meet her eye.  One thing Bertha noticed was that, though the grocer invariable addressed her mother as “madam,” in speaking to her he never used the grocerly “miss” and when, by chance, she heard him bestow this objectionable title upon a servant girl who was making purchases at the same time, Bertha not only felt grateful for the distinction, but saw in it a fresh proof of Mr. Jollyman’s good breeding.

The winter passed, and with the spring came events in which Bertha was interested.  Mr. Elvan, who for his health’s sake spent the winter in the south-west of France, fell so ill early in the year that Rosamund was summoned from Egypt.  With all speed she travelled to St. Jean de Luz.  When she arrived, her father was no longer in danger; but there seemed no hope of his being able to return to England for some months, so Rosamund remained with him and her sister, and was soon writing to her friend at Walham Green in a strain of revived enthusiasm for the country of the Basques.  A postscript to one of these letters, written in the middle of May, ran as follows:  “I hear that N. F. has a picture in the Academy called ‘A Ministering Angel,’ and that it promises to be one of the most popular of the year.  Have you seen it?” To this, Rosamund’s correspondent was able to reply that she had seen “N.F’s” picture, and that it certainly was a good deal talked about; she added no opinion as to the merits of the painting, and, in her next letter, Miss Elvan left the subject untouched.  Bertha was glad of this.  “A Ministering Angel” seemed to her by no means a very remarkable production, and she liked much better to say nothing about it than to depreciate the painter; for to do this would have been like seeking to confirm Rosamund in her attitude towards Norbert Franks, which was not at all Bertha’s wish.