"Well, in that case you'd far better stick to your husband," said Miss Allison sensibly.

Rosemary sighed. "You don't understand. I wasn't born to this humdrum life in a one-eyed town, surrounded by in-laws, with never enough money, and the parlour-maid always giving notice, and all that sort of ghastly sordidness. At least I shouldn't have that if I went away with Trevor. We should probably live abroad, and anyway he would never make the fatal mistake of expecting me to cope with butcher's bills. It isn't that I won't do it, it's simply that I can't. I'm not made like that. I'm the sort of person who has to have money. If Clement were rich—really rich, I mean—I dare say I shouldn't feel in the least like this. You can say what you like, but money does ease things."

"Of course, but I was under the impression that you were pretty comfortably off," said Miss Allison bluntly.

Rosemary shrugged her shoulders. "It depends what you call comfortable. I dare say lots of women would be perfectly happy with Clement's income. The trouble is that I've got terribly extravagant tastes—I admit it freely, and I wish to God I hadn't, but the fact remains that I have. That's my Russian blood again. It's an absolute curse."

"Yes, it does seem to be a bit of a pest," agreed Miss Allison. "All the same, you've got any amount of English blood as well. Why not concentrate on that?"

Rosemary looked at her with a kind of melancholy interest and said simply: "Of course, you're awfully cold, aren't you?"

Miss Allison, realising that to deny this imputation would be a waste of breath, replied: "Yes, I'm afraid I am."

"I think that must be why I like you so much," Rosemary mused. "We're so utterly, utterly dissimilar. You're intensely practical, and I'm hopelessly impractical. You don't feel things in the frightful way that I do, and you're not impulsive. I shouldn't think you're terribly passionate either, are you?"