Rose's pretty face clouded over. "But I am going to stay with Pauline next
week. And I wish people wouldn't ask Laura to sing in public. She can't
sing."

"It's a pleasure to listen to her, though," returned Tom sturdily. "We
aren't all as critical as you, Rosie; and our Parish Room isn't the Albert
Hall. You had much better go to Broadhurst than to Chelsea. Miss Smythe
and Miss Desborough live in two cupboards up among the clouds, don't
they?"

"It isn't quite as bad as that, my dear," broke in Miss Merivale, as she
saw Rose's vexed expression. "I promised that Rose should stay with them
for a day or two. I thought that if you went up to Joachim's concert you
might leave Rose behind, and fetch her next day."

"But, Aunt Lucy, Pauline said a week!" exclaimed Rose in dismay. "We could
do nothing in a day. And we want to do so much. Time always flies so fast
in London. One _lives_ there."

"We only vegetate here, eh, Rosie?" said Tom in a tone of good-humoured
banter. "Was Wordsworth a vegetable too? He lived in the country, you
know."

But Rose refused to answer this. "Aunt Lucy, I may stay longer than a day,
may I not?"

"Yes, dear, of course. Don't mind Tom's teasing. I must go up to town
again to-morrow, I find, and I will call at Cadogan Mansions and see Miss
Smythe for you. And I can get your seeds, Tom."