Two or three times, however, Godfrey had
written--thoroughly characteristic letters--warm, sanguine,
self-reproachful. From Wales he had crossed over to Ireland, where
he was working at a scheme for making a fortune out of Irish eggs
and poultry. In what the "work" consisted, was not clear, for he had
no money, beyond a small loan from his relative which enabled him to
live; but he sent a sheet of foolscap covered with computations
whereby his project was proved to be thoroughly practical and vastly
lucrative.
Meanwhile, he had made one new acquaintance, which was at first
merely a source of amusement to him, but little by little became
something more. In the winter days, when his business was new, there
one day came into the shop a rather sour-lipped and querulous-voiced
lady, who after much discussion of prices, made a modest purchase
and asked that the goods might be sent for her. On hearing her name
--Mrs. Cross--the grocer smiled, for he remembered that the
Crosses of whom he knew from Norbert Franks, lived at Walham Green,
and the artist's description of Mrs. Cross tallied very well with
the aspect and manner of this customer. Once or twice the lady
returned; then, on a day of very bad weather, there came in her
place a much younger and decidedly more pleasing person, whom Will
took to be Mrs. Cross's daughter. Facial resemblance there was none
discoverable; in bearing, in look, in tone, the two were different
as women could be; but at the younger lady's second visit, his
surmise was confirmed, for she begged him to change a five-pound
note, and, as the custom is in London shops, endorsed it with her
name--"Bertha Cross.
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