262 The Real Charlotte. 



a fine crop of them to be settled as it was, and that would 

 take the edge off his punctilious scruples with regard to 

 keeping her out of her money. 



The different heaps on the floor increased materially 

 while these reflections passed through Miss Mullen's brain. 

 It was characteristic of her that a distinct section of it had 

 never ceased from appraising and apportioning dresses, 

 dolmans and bonnets, with a nice regard to the rival claims 

 of herself, Eliza Hackett the cook, and the rest of the 

 establishment, and still deeper in its busy convolutions — 

 though this simile is probably unscientific — lurked and 

 grew the consciousness that Francie's name had not yet 

 been mentioned. The wardrobe was cleared at last, a 

 scarlet flannel dressing-gown topping the heap that was des- 

 tined for Tally Ho, and Charlotte had already settled the 

 question as to whether she should bestow her old one upon 

 Norry or make it into a bed for a cat. Lambert finished 

 his second pipe, and stretching himself, yawned drearily, as 

 though, which was indeed the case, the solemnity of the 

 occasion had worn off and its tediousness had become pro- 

 nounced. He looked at his watch. 



" Half-past twelve, by Jove ! Look here, Charlotte, let's 

 come down and have a glass of sherry." 



Charlotte got up from her knees with alacrity, though the 

 tone in which she accepted the invitation was fittingly 

 lugubrious. She was just as glad to leave something un- 

 finished for the afternoon, and there was something very 

 intimate and confidential about a friendly glass of sherry in 

 the middle of a joint day's work. It was not until Lambert 

 had helped himself a second time from the decanter of 

 brown sherry that Miss Mullen saw her opportunity to 

 approach a subject that was becoming conspicuous by its 

 absence. She had seated herself, not without consciousness, 

 in what had been Mrs. Lambert's chair ; she was feeling 

 happier than she had been since the time when Lambert 

 was a lanky young clerk in her father's office, with a pre- 

 cocious moustache and an affectionately free and easy 

 manner, before Rosemount had been built, or Lucy Galvin 

 thought of. She could think of Lucy now without resent- 

 ment, even with equanimity, and that last interview, when 

 her friend had died on the very spot where the sunlight was 



