One warm, beautiful morning, early in April, Rose was toiling rather
wearily up the long flight of stone steps leading to the flat. She had her
violin, and she found it heavy. She was wishing she had Tom with her to
carry it.

Though Rose had not yet confessed it to herself, she was beginning to be a
little homesick. She missed the delicious freshness of Woodcote, its wide
rooms and sunny gardens, the thousand and one little comforts she had been
too accustomed to to notice; but more, far, far more, she missed the
protecting fondness that had surrounded her all her life. It was only a
fortnight since she joined Pauline, but it seemed much longer. And June
seemed a very long way off.

But she was looking forward to a great treat that afternoon. Paderewski
was playing at St. James's Hall, and she and Pauline were going early to
get seats. They would have to wait two hours or so, and might have to
stand after all, but to Rose that was part of the afternoon's enjoyment.
She had quite agreed with Pauline that it would be foolish to go to the
expense of taking their tickets beforehand. She opened the door with her
latch-key--that latch-key still gave her a thrill of proud delight when
she used it--and went in.

Pauline called to her from her room.

"Rosie, is that you, dearest? I want to speak to you."

Rose put down her violin and crossed the tiny entry. Pauline was standing
before her looking-glass doing her hair. She wore a soiled pink