Pauline frowned a little. She did not care to be reminded, even by
foolish, flattering little Rose, that she was, in sober fact, nothing more
nor less than Clare's paid companion.

"Oh, we get on," she said coolly. "We each leave the other to go her own
way in peace. And it suits Lady Desborough in Rome to say that Clare is
living with her old governess. People think of me as a spectacled lady of
an uncertain age, and everybody is satisfied. But you would like some tea.
I wish Clare was in. She isn't afraid of that gas stove. I am ashamed to
confess that I am. Come out with me while I light it, Rosamunda mia. And
you shall make the tea. I never can remember how many spoonfuls to put in.
How pretty you look in blue! I wish I was eighteen, with hair the colour
of ripe wheat, then I would wear blue too."

She went off, laughing, with Rose to the tiny kitchen on the other side of
the passage. The sitting-room was the largest room in the little Chelsea
flat, and that was smaller than any of the rooms at Woodcote; but the
diminutive dimensions of the place only added to the fascinations of it in
Rose's eyes.

As she took the cups and saucers down from the toy-like dresser and put
them on the lilliputian table between the gas stove and the door, she felt
a thrill of ineffable pleasure.

"Oh, Pauline, I wish I lived here with you. It's so dull at Woodcote. And
it seems to get duller every day."

"Poor little Rose, it must be dull for you. Clare and I often talk of you
with pity. Clare pities you the most. A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous