CHAPTER IV.

_"SOMETHING TO DO."_

THE Ogilvies occupied the ground-floor dining-room, and two bedrooms at the top of the house. Rudge had the upstairs drawing-room, and the best bedroom behind it, which looked like a sufficiency of means—as also did the cut of his coat, and the gentlemanly finish of his Gladstone bag, visible on the landing. But Pauline knew nothing about his circumstances, further than she might conjecture from such signs.

When Nessie's name was mentioned, she took a seat, and plunged into the intricacies of a grey stocking, which grew fast under her capable fingers. Rudge stood at the table, big and broad and good-humoured, watching the fingers, as they moved with lightning rapidity. He did not know that this was her excitement vent, but, doubtless, he noticed that the motions of the said fingers were not graceful. They partook of Pauline's general angularity.

"I thought you told me that your little sister would arrive to-day. My mistake, no doubt."

"No, not till to-morrow. One can hardly call her 'little.' She is much taller than I am—only, such a child still."

"How long do the holidays last?"

"They are to be interminable. She will not go back to school."

"Ah—home education."

"I suppose she will read a little. She ought, but girls don't always do what they ought. Seventeen is too young to leave off lessons."

"She is seventeen?"

"Just that—ten days ago."

"Anything I can do for you out-of-doors?"

"Unless you meet my father—"

"And if I do?"

"Send or bring him back to write a business letter."

"I'll remember. Business letters are of importance."

"This one is. If Miss Primrose—"

An odd change passed over her companion's face.

"Yes! If Miss Primrose—?"

"I forgot. He did not seem to like me to know her name, so I ought not to have repeated it. But, after all, I don't see that the thing signifies. A prosaic name enough."

"Flowery, rather. What were you going to say about Miss Primrose?"

"I don't know. My father has talked for weeks of writing to an old friend—"

"An 'old' friend! Yes?"

"Do you know her?" asked Pauline, struck with his stress on the adjective.

"I've seen a lady of that name. I shouldn't have called her old. However—no need to say anything to your father."

"He never told me her name till to-day, and then it came out. He knew her years and years ago, I believe, when he was young, so she can't be very juvenile. It is just a matter of business. I don't know why I should not explain. My father or I must get something to do, to keep us going."

She tilted her nose a little higher than usual, and looked up at him with the grey eyes which rather veiled than expressed her feelings, while the grey stocking grew fast. Meaning enough was expressed in the motions of her fingers could Rudge have read it.

"Something to do!"

"Something or anything. I don't care what. My father would care, I suppose: gentlemen are so particular! I can't break stones on the road, and I couldn't well undertake washing or ironing, but anything within my powers—We lost money lately," she went on. "Most of what we had. That is why we have left our old home. Don't you know so much?"

Rudge had gathered "so much," but he had not gathered that they were in actual difficulties still.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't suppose—"

"My father seems to have known Miss Primrose long ago, but he certainly has not seen her for ages. I don't know why he has never mentioned her name. I don't know why he expects her to help us. But he will come to no decision without writing to her, and he will not write. By 'helping us,' I mean finding us something to do in the way of work. One need never be ashamed to work."

"No, indeed. I should have thought you had enough on your hands already."

"It's always the case of the willing horse, you know."

"I'm afraid that's just it. If I meet your father, I shall be sure to remind him that he is wanted."

Rudge vanished, but apparently he did not meet Mr. Ogilvie.

The latter's return was long delayed. And when at length he appeared, he was far too dripping and miserable for letters.

Pauline urged the necessity in vain.

Mr. Ogilvie changed his wet clothes, made himself comfortable in an easy chair, and declined to exert brain or fingers.

"Quite impossible," he said. "To-morrow would do as well."

Then Rudge came in, according to agreement: and tea and chess had sway. No allusion was made to Miss Primrose. The evening hours passed swiftly to Pauline, in a maze of quiet happiness. Not much conversation took place, but what did it matter? Enough for her to sit at the table, plying her needles, watching the game, stealing glances at the strong broad shoulders and the good-humoured reddish face, which had taken so strong a hold upon her being. An occasional glance in her direction was all she needed.

If only things might go on so, always! But Nessie would come home on the morrow: and that might mean differences.