“Lady Dedlock, if I may speak plainly—­”

“By all means.”

“—­I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve you of the incumbrance and remove her from her present position.”

“And to speak as plainly,” she returns with the same studied carelessness, “so should I. Do I understand that you will take her with you?”

The iron gentleman makes an iron bow.

“Sir Leicester, will you ring?” Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward from his window and pulls the bell.  “I had forgotten you.  Thank you.”  He makes his usual bow and goes quietly back again.  Mercury, swift-responsive, appears, receives instructions whom to produce, skims away, produces the aforesaid, and departs.

Rosa has been crying and is yet in distress.  On her coming in, the ironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains with her near the door ready to depart.

“You are taken charge of, you see,” says my Lady in her weary manner, “and are going away well protected.  I have mentioned that you are a very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for.”

“She seems after all,” observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a little forward with his hands behind him, “as if she were crying at going away.”

“Why, she is not well-bred, you see,” returns Mr. Rouncewell with some quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the lawyer to retort upon, “and she is an inexperienced little thing and knows no better.  If she had remained here, sir, she would have improved, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” is Mr. Tulkinghorn’s composed reply.

Rosa sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my Lady, and that she was happy at Chesney Wold, and has been happy with my Lady, and that she thanks my Lady over and over again.  “Out, you silly little puss!” says the ironmaster, checking her in a low voice, though not angrily.  “Have a spirit, if you’re fond of Watt!” My Lady merely waves her off with indifference, saying, “There, there, child!  You are a good girl.  Go away!” Sir Leicester has magnificently disengaged himself from the subject and retired into the sanctuary of his blue coat.  Mr. Tulkinghorn, an indistinct form against the dark street now dotted with lamps, looms in my Lady’s view, bigger and blacker than before.

“Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock,” says Mr. Rouncewell after a pause of a few moments, “I beg to take my leave, with an apology for having again troubled you, though not of my own act, on this tiresome subject.  I can very well understand, I assure you, how tiresome so small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock.  If I am doubtful of my dealing with it, it is only because I did not at first quietly exert my influence to take my young friend here away without troubling you at all.  But it appeared to me—­I dare say magnifying the importance of the thing—­that it was respectful to explain to you how the matter stood and candid to consult your wishes and convenience.  I hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the polite world.”