‘They’re busy here to-day.  Not a seat to be had in the other room.’

It was apologetic in intention, and not rudely spoken.  After a moment’s delay the bald, respectable man made a curt response.

‘This room is public, I believe.’

The intruder held his peace.  But more than once he glanced at the girl, and after each furtive scrutiny his plain visage manifested some disturbance, a troubled thoughtfulness.  His one look at the mute parent was from beneath contemptuous eyebrows.

Very soon another guest appeared, a massive agricultural man, who descended upon a creaking chair and growled a remark about the hot weather.  With him the red-haired pedestrian struck into talk.  Their topic was beer.  Uncommonly good, they agreed, the local brew, and each called for a second pint.  What, they asked in concert, would England be without her ale?  Shame on the base traffickers who enfeebled or poisoned this noble liquor!  And how cool it was—­ah!  The right sort of cellar!  He of the red hair hinted at a third pewter.

These two were still but midway in their stout attack on meat and drink, when father and daughter, having exchanged a few whispers, rose to depart.  After leaving the room, the girl remembered that she had left her flowers behind; she durst not return for them, and, knowing her father would dislike to do so, said nothing about the matter.

‘A pity!’ exclaimed Mr. Whiston (that was his respectable name) as they strolled away.  ’It looked at first as if we should have such a nice quiet dinner.’

‘I enjoyed it all the same,’ replied his companion, whose name was Rose.

‘That abominable habit of drinking!’ added Mr. Whiston austerely.  He himself had quaffed water, as always.  ’Their ale, indeed!  See the coarse, gross creatures it produces!’

He shuddered.  Rose, however, seemed less consentient than usual.  Her eyes were on the ground; her lips were closed with a certain firmness.  When she spoke, it was on quite another subject.

They were Londoners.  Mr. Whiston held the position of draughtsman in the office of a geographical publisher; though his income was small, he had always practised a rigid economy, and the possession of a modest private capital put him beyond fear of reverses.  Profoundly conscious of social limits, he felt it a subject for gratitude that there was nothing to be ashamed of in his calling, which he might fairly regard as a profession, and he nursed this sense of respectability as much on his daughter’s behalf as on his own.  Rose was an only child; her mother had been dead for years; her kinsfolk on both sides laid claim to the title of gentlefolk, but supported it on the narrowest margin of independence.  The girl had grown up in an atmosphere unfavourable to mental development, but she had received a fairly good education, and nature had dowered her with intelligence.  A sense of her father’s conscientiousness and of his true affection forbade her to criticise openly the principles on which he had directed her life; hence a habit of solitary meditation, which half fostered, yet half opposed, the gentle diffidence of Rose’s character.