Will drew a long breath.  If ever news came opportunely, it was this.  He threw up the window of his stuffy little sitting-room, and looked out into the summer night.  The murmur of London once more made music to his ears.

CHAPTER 29

Rosamund took the Chelsea lodgings proposed to her by Bertha Cross, and in a few days went to live there.  The luggage which she brought from Ashtead enabled her to add a personal touch to the characterless rooms:  in the place of the landlady’s ornaments, which were not things of beauty, she scattered her own bibelots, and about the walls she hung a number of her own drawings, framed for the purpose, as well as several which bore the signature, “Norbert Franks.”  Something less than a year ago, when her father went abroad, their house at Bath had been given up, and the furniture warehoused; for the present, Rosamund and her sister were content to leave things thus.  The inheritance of each amounted only to a few hundred pounds.

“It’s enough to save one from worry for a year or two,” said Rosamund to her friend Bertha.  “I’m not extravagant; I can live here very comfortably.  And there’s a pleasure in the thought that one’s work not only may succeed but must.”

“I’m sure I hope so,” replied Bertha, “but where’s the must?”

“What am I to do if it doesn’t?” asked Miss Elvan, with her sweet smile, and in a tone of irresistible argument.

“True,” conceded her humorous friend.  “There’s no other way out of the difficulty.”

This was on the day of Rosamund’s coming to Chelsea.  A week later, Bertha found the sitting-room brightened with the hanging water-colours, with curtains of some delicate fabric at the windows, with a new rug before the fire place.

“These things have cost so little,” said Rosamund, half apologetically.  “And—­yes, I was obliged to buy this little tea service; I really couldn’t use Mrs. Darby’s; it spoilt the taste of the tea.  Trifles, but they really have their importance; they help to keep one in the right mind.  Oh, I must show you an amusing letter I’ve had from Winnie.  Winifred is prudence itself.  She wouldn’t spend a sixpence unnecessarily.  ‘Suppose one fell ill,’ she writes, ’what a blessing it would be to feel that one wasn’t helpless and dependent.  Oh, do be careful with your money, and consider very, very seriously what is the best course to take in your position.’  Poor, dear old Winnie!  I know she frets and worries about me, and pictures me throwing gold away by the handful.  Yet, as you know, that isn’t my character at all.  If I lay out a few sovereigns to make myself comfortable here, I know what I’m doing; it’ll all come back again in work.  As you know, Bertha, I’m not afraid of poverty —­not a bit!  I had very much rather be shockingly poor, living in a garret and half starved, than just keep myself tidily going in lodgings such as these were before I made the little changes.  Winnie has a terror of finding herself destitute.  She jumped for joy when she was offered that work, and I’m sure she’d be content to live there in the same way for years.  She feels safe as long as she needn’t touch her money.”