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"Philip," she murmured breathlessly, "Matthew—we must hurry—we must get on quickly! You, Matthew, must make money. You, Philip, must get your stories published. I want to come here and dance with you both, and I want you to have clothes like these men, and I want to have a white lace dress like that girl who has just gone in, with white silk stockings and silver shoes, and a cloud of ermine all over me."

Philip laughed indulgently.

"The day my first novel is published," he promised, "we will all dine here."

"Before six months have passed," Matthew declared, "I shall lunch at that table by the window. In a year's time, I shall dine here whenever I choose."

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Rosina, alone in the sitting room at Maltby Street, bending over her typewriter, in the manipulation of which, after seven months' continual practice, she was now entirely proficient, paused suddenly to listen, with her fingers in the air. There was a step outside. The door was opened without ceremony. With a quick effort, she kept the expression of disappointment from her face. It was Matthew who entered.