Florence and Kitty left Dawlish the next day and went to Southampton.  There they met Colonel Sharston, and Florence had the great bliss of seeing Kitty’s intense happiness with her father.  They stayed at a hotel at Southampton for the best part of a week, and then the three went to London.  Kitty and her father were going to Switzerland for a month’s holiday.  They begged of Florence to go with them, but nothing would induce her to accept the invitation.

“I know well that Colonel Sharston even now is far from rich,” she said to herself.  “I will not let Kitty feel that I have put myself upon her.”

So very firmly she declined the invitation, and one short week after she had bidden her mother good bye at Dawlish she found herself alone in London.  She had seen Kitty and Colonel Sharston off by the night train to Dover, and left the great railway-station slowly and sadly.

“Now I have to fight the battle.  Shall I fail or shall I succeed?” she said to herself.

She had taken a bed-room in a large house which was let out in small rooms.  It was one of the first houses that had been let out in flats for women in London, and Florence considered herself very fortunate in being able to take up her quarters there.  There was a large restaurant downstairs, where the girls who lived in the house could have their meals provided at low prices.

Florence’s bed-room was fairly neat, but very small and sparsely furnished.  It was an attic room, of course, for she could only afford the cheapest apartment.  She had exactly twenty pounds wherewith to support herself until fortune’s ball rolled her way.  She felt confident enough.  She had been well educated; she had taken certain diplomas which ought to enable her to get a good situation as a teacher; but if there was one thing which poor Florence disliked it was the thought of imparting knowledge to others.  If she could obtain a secretaryship or any other post she would certainly not devote her life to teaching.

“It behooves me to be sensible now,” she thought; “I must look around me and see what is the best thing to do.”

That evening, after the departure of Kitty and her father, she retired to her bed-room.  She had bought a little tea, sugar, bread, and butter, and she made herself a small meal.  The prices at the restaurant were very moderate, but Florence made a calculation that she could live for a little less by buying her own food.

“I will dine at the restaurant,” she thought, “and make my own breakfast and get my own supper.  I must make this twenty pounds go as far as possible, as I do not mean to take the first thing that offers.  I am determined to get a secretaryship if I can.”

That evening she wrote a long letter to her mother, and another to Sir John Wallis.  She told Sir John that she was preparing to fight the battle in London, and gave him her address.

“I am determined,” she said in the letter, “not to eat the bread of dependence.  I am firmly resolved to fight my own way, and the money you have given me is, I consider, a stepping-stone to my fortunes.”

She wrote frankly and gratefully, and when Sir John read the letter he determined to keep her in mind, but not to give her any further help for the present.

“She has a good deal of character,” he said to himself, “although she did fall so terribly six years ago.”

Mrs. Aylmer the less also received a long letter from Florence.  It was written in a very different vein from the one she had sent to Sir John.  Mrs. Aylmer delighted in small news, and Florence tried to satisfy her to her heart’s content.  She told her about Kitty’s dresses and Kitty’s handsome bonnets and all the different things she was taking for her foreign tour.

She described her own life with the Sharstons during the few days she had spent with them at a London hotel, and finally she spoke of her little attic up in the clouds, and how economical she meant to be, and how far she would make her money go, and how confident she was that in the future she could help her mother; and finally she sent the little Mummy her warmest love, and folded up the letter and put it into its envelope and posted it.

That letter brought great delight to Mrs. Aylmer.  It was indeed what she considered a red-letter day to her when it arrived, for by parcel post that very same day there came a large packet for her from Bertha Keys, sent straight from Aylmer’s Court.  This packet contained a wardrobe which set the little widow’s ears tingling, and flushed her cheeks, brightened her eyes, and caused her heart, as she expressed it, to bound with joy.

“Oh, Sukey, come and look; come and look!” she cried, and Sukey ran from the kitchen and held up her hands and uttered sundry ejaculations as she helped her mistress to turn over the tempting array of garments.

“There’s the silk dress.  What a dear girl!” cried Mrs. Aylmer.  “Isn’t it a perfectly splendid dress, Sukey?  We must get it cut down, of course; and the extra breadths will do to renovate it when it gets a little shabby.  I shall give a tea-party, I really will, Sukey, when this dress is made as good as new.  I am quite certain that I can spare you my old black silk, which you know, Sukey, has been turned four times.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Sukey, in her downright voice.  “And what news is there from Miss Florence, please, ma’am?”

“Oh, there is a letter.  I have just had time to read it.  It is a very nice, pleasant letter; but really Florence is the sort of girl who does not know where her bread is buttered.  If she had been anybody else she would have made up to that young man instead of sending him away when I invited him in to supper.  Florence is a great trial to me in many ways, Sukey.”

“If I was you, ma’am, I’d be thankful to have such a good, nice, downright young lady like Miss Florence, that I would,” said Sukey.  “But don’t keep me any longer now, please, ma’am.  I’ll go and make you a cup of cocoa:  it’s quite as much as you want for your dinner to-day.  You’re so new-fangled with your bits of clothes.”

“That I am,” said Mrs. Aylmer the less, as Sukey hurried out of the room.

Amongst the clothes, lying by itself, was a thick envelope.  Mrs. Aylmer tore it open.  There tumbled out of it two golden sovereigns.

“Dear, dear!” thought the widow; “my sister-in-law Susan must be changing her mind to send me all these lovely clothes and this money; but stay:  the writing is not in Susan’s hand ­it is doubtless the hand of that charming young creature, Miss Keys.”

Bertha’s letter ran as follows: ­

    “Dear Mrs. Aylmer ­

“I have collected a few things which I think may prove useful, in especial the silk dress which you seemed so much to covet.  I also send two sovereigns, as I think you will like to have the funds to pay the dressmaker for cutting it down to your figure.  Please use the sovereigns in any way you think best.

“I have a little request to make of you, dear Mrs. Aylmer.  I am not likely to come to Dawlish again, but I am much interested in your dear daughter Florence, and would be greatly obliged if you would favor me with her address in London.  Will you send it to me by return of post, and will you put it into the addressed envelope which I enclose, as I do not want my benefactress Mrs. Aylmer to know anything about this matter?  If I can help you at any time pray command me.

    “Yours sincerely,

    “Bertha Keys.”

Mrs. Aylmer was so excited by this letter, and by the fact that she possessed two sovereigns more money than she had done when she awoke that morning, that she could scarcely drink the cocoa when Sukey appeared with it.

“Sukey,” she exclaimed to that worthy woman, “it never rains but it pours.  We will have a tea-party:  such a tea-party it shall be; done in style, I can assure you.  All the neighbours who have ever shown any kindness to me shall be invited, and we will have the most recherche little set-out.  I will go to Crook’s, in the High Street, and order the cakes and the pastry and the sandwiches, and we will hire enough cups and saucers and tea-spoons and all the other things which will be necessary.”

“You had better begin by hiring an increased apartment, ma’am,” said Sukey, in a dubious voice.  “I don’t say nothing against this parlour, but it ain’t to say large.  How will you crowd in all the visitors?”

“It is fashionable to have a crowded room,” said Mrs. Aylmer, pausing for a moment to consider this difficulty.  “People can stand and sit on the stairs; they always do in crushes.  This is to be a crush and ­”

“How will you pay for it, ma’am?”

“I tell you I have money.  What do you say to these?”

As Mrs. Aylmer spoke, she held a sovereign between the finger and thumb of each hand.

Sukey opened her eyes.

“Is it your sister-in-law, ma’am,” she said, “that is changing her mind?”

“No, it is not; I wish it were.  I can tell you no more, you curious old body; but when both our silk dresses are made to fit us we will have the party.”

Sukey went softly out of the room.

“There’s something brewing that I don’t quite like,” she said to herself.  “I wish Miss Florence was at home!  I wish the missus hadn’t those queer mean ways!  But there, when all’s said and done, I have learned to be fond of her:  only she’s a very queer sort.”

That evening Mrs. Aylmer wrote to Bertha Keys thanking her effusively for the parcel, telling her that she felt that she owed her lovely silk dress to her, and further thanking her for the sovereigns.  The letter ran as follows: ­

“I am not proud, my dear; and a little extra money comes in extremely handy.  I mean to give a party and to show my neighbours that I am as good as any of them.  It will be a return for many little kindnesses on their part, and will ensure me a comfortable winter.  I shall have so many invitations to tea when they see me in that silk dress, and eat the excellent cakes, muffins, and crumpets, etc., which I shall provide for them, that they won’t dare to cut me in the future.

“If you want dear Florence’s address, here it is ­12, Prince’s Mansions, Westminster.  She has taken a room in a sort of common lodging-house, and I understand from the way she has written to me that she is in one of the attics.  It seems a sad pity that the dear child should pinch herself as she does, and if you, Miss Keys, could add to your other virtues that of effecting a reconciliation between Florence and her aunt by marriage, you would indeed fill my cup of gratitude to the brim.

    “Yours sincerely,

    “Mabel Aylmer.”

“P.S. ­If by any chance that most charming young man, Mr. Maurice Trevor, should be coming to Dawlish, I shall always be pleased to give him a welcome.  You might mention to him where Florence is staying in London.  He seemed to have taken quite a fancy to her, but mum’s the word, my dear.  Mothers will have dreams, you know.”