everlasting breakfasts in bed. Leaving the Ramsbotham flat, she returned to the maternal roof, and there a course of hard work and plain living tended greatly to improve her figure and complexion; so that in course of time, the gods smiling again upon her, she married a foreman printer, and passes out of this story.
Meanwhile, Mr. Reginald Peters—older, and the possessor, perhaps, of more sense—looked at Miss Ramsbotham with new eyes, and now not tolerated but desired her. Bohemia waited to assist at the happy termination of a pretty and somewhat novel romance. Miss Ramsbotham had shown no sign of being attracted elsewhere. Flattery, compliment, she continued to welcome; but merely, so it seemed, as favourable criticism. Suitors more fit and proper were now not lacking, for Miss Ramsbotham, though a woman less desirable when won, came readily to the thought of wooing. But to all such she turned a laughing face.
“I like her for it,” declared Susan Fossett; “and he has improved—there was room for it—though I wish it could have been some other. There was Jack Herring—it would have been so much more suitable. Or even Joe, in spite of his size. But it’s her wedding, not ours; and she will never care for anyone else.”
And Bohemia bought its presents, and had them ready, but never gave them. A few months later Mr. Reginald Peters returned to Canada, a bachelor. Miss Ramsbotham expressed her desire for another private interview with Peter Hope.
“I may as well keep on the Letter to Clorinda,” thought Miss Ramsbotham. “I have got into the knack of it. But I will get you to pay me for it in the ordinary way.”
“I would rather have done so from the beginning,” explained Peter.
“I know. I could not in conscience, as I told you, take from both sides. For the future—well, they have said nothing; but I expect they are beginning to get tired of it.”
“And you!” questioned Peter.
“Yes. I am tired of it myself,” laughed Miss Ramsbotham. “Life isn’t long enough to be a well-dressed woman.”
“You have done with all that?”
“I hope so,” answered Miss Ramsbotham.
“And don’t want to talk any more about it?” suggested Peter.
“Not just at present. I should find it so difficult to explain.”
By others, less sympathetic than old Peter, vigorous attempts were made to solve the mystery. Miss Ramsbotham took enjoyment in cleverly evading these tormentors. Thwarted at every point, the gossips turned to other themes. Miss Ramsbotham found interest once again in the higher branches of her calling; became again, by slow degrees, the sensible, frank, ‘good sort’ that Bohemia had known, liked, respected—everything but loved.
Years later, to Susan Fossett, the case was made clear; and through Susan Fossett, a nice enough woman but talkative, those few still interested learned the explanation.
“Love,” said Miss Ramsbotham to the bosom friend, “is not regulated by reason. As you say, there were many men I might have married with much more hope of happiness. But I never cared for any other man. He was not intellectual, was egotistical, possibly enough selfish. The man should always be older than the woman; he was younger, and he was a weak character. Yet I loved him.”