CHAPTER II.

_HOW THE LETTER WAS NOT WRITTEN._

"HER name is Primrose," faltered Mr. Ogilvie, like a schoolboy brought to book.

"Primrose! Is that it? Nothing very distinguished, after all. Well, now you can write 'Dear Miss Primrose.' Then you can refer to our troubles—to my mother's death, if she does not know it, and to the loss of our money. Tell her we have been living on in the old house, till we could sell it. I suppose it would be better not to say that we have been recklessly using what was left of our capital, and that it is nearly all gone. You might explain that we have been for six weeks in this poky place, without a notion what brought us here, and that we are at our wits' end what to do next. Then you can ask her whether she could not possibly help you or me to some sort of work just to bring in something extra, if it were only fifty pounds a year. Only do begin, father, one way or another. Tell her frankly how we stand, and ask her advice."

Pauline confused Mr. Ogilvie with her eager and rapid utterances. He listened in a troubled manner, as if vainly trying to fix his thoughts.

"I cannot do it, I really cannot," he said again. "Not at this moment, I mean. My head feels bewildered. You shall tell me by-and-by what to say—only not quite so fast, my dear—and then I shall be able to take it in."

"Mr. Rudge has promised to spend the evening with us."

"Has he? Ah, yes, I remember. But I shall be in long before then. There is plenty of time."

"And you promise to write to Miss Primrose when you come back?"

"I will see about it."

"Father, if you find the letter such a trouble, why should I not write instead? Why not?"

"My dear, it would not do. It would not do at all," Mr. Ogilvie looked fretted. "Pray do not think of such a thing."

"Thinking isn't much use, for I have not her address," Pauline responded. "But I don't see why I should not write. Something ought to be done."

Mr. Ogilvie made his escape at last, Pauline going with him to the front door. When she turned back she was confronted by a young man, a gentleman, who had just come downstairs. He was, perhaps, about thirty, with a fair reddish complexion, and light hair. A certain wishy-washyness which sometimes goes with such colouring was in his case obviated by a broad-chested figure, over medium height, and by darker eyebrows and moustache. The effect was curious, not unpleasant, and he had a particularly genial smile.

"Wet day, Miss Ogilvie."

"Very." Pauline retreated before him into the sitting-room, as if it were a matter of course that he should follow, and follow he did. "I have been trying to persuade my father to stay in, but he won't hear reason."

"Men never do, I believe!"

"Not often," laughed Pauline. She stood by the fireplace in her usual erect attitude, the short nose so lifted as to point slightly upwards. It was an attitude which always gave the impression of a struggle after increased height. Pauline certainly was short, quite under medium height for women. And she looked shorter than usual beside her present companion, who gained extra "bigness" from his large enveloping cloak.

He stood looking down on Pauline with a good-humoured, interested expression. And Pauline gazed up at him with her usual self-assertiveness, into which, however, a tinge of softness had crept.

"Especially when the reason flows from feminine lips!"

"You are making out a bad case for yourselves. A man ought to be willing to hear reason from any and every quarter, if he is such a reasonable animal as he is supposed to be."

"That's rather cutting! You won't exercise your logic to keep me in, I hope, for duty calls me out. I never go against the calls of duty. And you are not my father."

He laughed outright. "No, not quite. Not quite that."

Pauline coloured vividly. "I mean—you are younger. You have not his health. Besides—" after a pause—"I suppose I ought to confess that I was not thinking so much of his health. I wanted him to write a business letter."

"Ah! Horrible things, business letters! By-the-by, did you not say that your sister was coming home this afternoon? I have to go to the station presently. Could I be any help as to meeting her? The weather is so bad—for you, I mean. I would gladly put her into a fly—or—"

"Thanks. We can't afford the luxury of a fly, and Nessie does not arrive till to-morrow."

Pauline spoke the words rather stiffly. She was not anxious to throw Mr. Rudge and Nessie together more than need be. Of course they would and must meet—but still—Well, Nessie was undeniably pretty, and Pauline was not pretty at all. Pauline knew this, and did not mince matters with herself. In a general way she was not jealous. She loved and was proud of Nessie. But still—!