But Rose shut up her book. "Pauline will scold again if I don't carry all
this away," she said, with a laugh. "And I mean to have some cookery
lessons, if I can get them. But Woodcote is so far from everywhere. It is
like being buried alive."

Rhoda, who had known what it was to live for years fifty miles from a
town, did not know how to answer this. And Rose, angry with herself for
saying so much to Miss Sampson, caught up the pastry board and rolling-pin
and retreated to the kitchen. She came back in a few moments with her
apron off, and found Rhoda busy at work, and Pauline in a low chair by the
fire with her hands clasped round her knees. Pauline had changed her
outdoor dress for an odd, picturesque frock of sage green Liberty serge,
touched with yellow. She had fastened some daffodils in her belt, and
looked like an aesthetic picture of Spring.

"Arrange my daffodils for me, there is a good little Rose," she said,
smiling lazily at Rose as she entered. "The brown pots, not the blue ones.
Now Clare is going to her native fens, I mean this room to be a thing of
beauty and a joy for ever. How good it will be to get rid of the click of
that typewriter!"

"Don't say that to Clare," laughed Rose, as she brought the brown pots to
the table. "She was telling me this morning it was the thing she would
miss most."

Pauline lifted her dark eyebrows. "Did she really say that? But it is
exactly like Clare; she is more a machine herself than a human being. I
was very fond of her once, but I have found her trying to live with. They
say you never know a woman till you have lived six months with her. Don't
put too many daffodils in one pot, my Rose; they want plenty of room to