“May is the best month of the year in London, Rose. You shall spend May with me. The flat will have to be given up then, if I cannot get anyone to share it with me. Lady Desborough only took it till the end of April. But we will have a lovely May together. I am sure your aunt will not refuse to let you come.” “I couldn’t possibly stay away for a month,” Rose said firmly, but with the air of a martyr. “Aunt Lucy looked heartbroken when I asked for a week this time. She has got to depend on me for everything.” “Just so. But if you were away she would do things for herself, and it would be a thousand times better for her. She won’t have missed you this time as much as you fear, Rosie. And won’t you think of me a little bit? Just think how lonely I shall be!” “Oh, I know. And I _want_ to come again,” Rose said piteously. “I might get away for a week in May. If you spoke to Aunt Lucy”-- “Trust it to me entirely, dear. I know exactly what to say. And I feel sure your aunt will let you be free when she understands how much you want it. For a week or so, I mean,” she added hastily, as she saw Rose’s anxious look. “I mustn’t ask for more, I suppose.” “It wouldn’t be a bit of good to ask,” sighed Rose. “If Aunt Lucy said I might stay longer, she would look so miserable about it I should not like to take her at her word. But I might be spared for a week, I should think. That will be something to look forward to.” They reached Woodcote early in the afternoon, and Pauline was soon furnished with an opportunity to plead Rose’s cause with Miss Merivale. Tom had bought a new pony which he wanted Rose to see, and they went away to the stables, leaving their aunt and Pauline alone. Pauline had laughingly refused to accompany them. “I am going to tell Miss Merivale what Mrs. Metcalfe said about your music, Rose,” she said. “It would make you vain if you were to hear it.” “Who is Mrs. Metcalfe?” asked Tom, when they got outside. “Is she a great authority, Rose?” “She is Lady Desborough’s sister,” returned Rose, with dignity. “Pauline and I went to tea there yesterday. She lives in Grosvenor Square.” “Ah, I understand now why Miss Smythe spoke of her with bated breath,” returned Tom in the light, bantering tone which so often irritated Rose. “I might have known she lived in Grosvenor Square.” Rose refused to take notice of his raillery. “It was Mrs. Metcalfe who got Miss Sampson for Clare. She heard of her through some agency. What has made Aunt Lucy take such an interest in her, Tom? She was down here again yesterday, wasn’t she?” “Yes. Have you seen her, Rosie?” “For a moment or two. She looked nice, I thought. But I can’t imagine what Aunt Lucy can find for her to do.”