walked to the piano, selected a sheet of music, and sat down to play.
Presently, whilst she drummed with vigour on the keys, some one approached; she looked up and saw Mrs. Banting; the other persons had left the room.
"If it's true," murmured Mrs. Banting, with genuine kindliness on her flabby lips, "all I can say is that it's shameful shameful!"
Miss Jewell stared at her.
"What do you mean?"
"Mr. Cheeseman—to go and——"
"I don't understand you. What is it to me?"
The words were thrown out almost fiercely, and a crash on the piano drowned whatever Mrs. Banting meant to utter in reply. Miss Jewell now had the drawing-room to herself. She "practised" for half an hour, careering through many familiar pieces with frequent mechanical correction of time-honoured blunders. When at length she was going up to her room, a grinning servant handed her a letter which had just arrived. A glance at the envelope told her from whom it came, and in privacy she at once opened it. The writer's address was Glasgow.
"My dear Rosamund," began the letter, "I can't understand why you write in such a nasty way. For some time now your letters have been horrid. I don't show them to William because if I did he would get into a tantrum. What I have to say to you now is this, that we simply can t go on sending you the money. We haven't it to spare, and that's the plain truth. You think we're rolling in money, and it's no use telling you we are not. William said last night that you must find some way of supporting
yourself, and I can only say the same. You are a lady and had a
