She naturally went into her room and cried again, wondering what her father and mother would say if they knew that bedroom fires were considered vulgarly extravagant by an impressive member of the British aristocracy.
She was not at all strong at the time and was given to feeling chilly and miserable on wet, windy days.

She used to cry more than ever and was so desolate that there were days when she used to go to the vicarage for companionship.

On such days the vicar's wife would entertain her with stories of the villagers' catastrophes, and she would empty her purse upon the tea table and feel a little consoled because she was the means of consoling someone else.
"I suppose it gratifies your vanity to play the Lady Bountiful," Sir Nigel sneered one evening, having heard in the village what she was doing.
"I--never thought of such a thing," she stammered feebly.

"Mrs.Brent said they were so poor." "You throw your money about as if you were a child," said her mother-in-law.

"It is a pity it is not put in the hands of some person with discretion." It had begun to dawn upon Rosalie that her ladyship was deeply convinced that either herself or her son would be admirably discreet custodians of the money referred to.