‘Father—­’

‘Well, my dear?’

’There is only one thing I dislike in these letters—­and that is a falsehood.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Rose was flushing.  Her nerves grew tense; she had wrought herself to a simple audacity which overcame small embarrassments.

’Mr. Burroughs says that he followed us home from Paddington to discover our address.  That is not true.  He asked me for my name and address in the train, and gave me his.’

The father gasped.

‘He asked—?  You gave—?’

‘It was whilst you were away in the refreshment-room,’ proceeded the girl, with singular self-control, in a voice almost matter-of-fact.  ’I ought to tell you, at the same time, that it was Mr. Burroughs who brought me the flowers from the inn, when I forgot them.  You didn’t see him give them to me in the station.’

The father stared.

’But, Rose, what does all this mean?  You—­you overwhelm me!  Go on, please.  What next?’

‘Nothing, father.’

And of a sudden the girl was so beset with confusing emotions that she hurriedly quitted her chair and vanished from the room.

Before Mr. Whiston returned to his geographical drawing on Monday morning, he had held long conversations with Rose, and still longer with himself.  Not easily could he perceive the justice of his daughter’s quarrel with propriety; many days were to pass, indeed, before he would consent to do more than make inquiries about Charles James Burroughs, and to permit that aggressive young man to give a fuller account of himself in writing.  It was by silence that Rose prevailed.  Having defended herself against the charge of immodesty, she declined to urge her own inclination or the rights of Mr. Burroughs; her mute patience did not lack its effect with the scrupulous but tender parent.

‘I am willing to admit, my dear,’ said Mr. Whiston one evening, a propos of nothing at all, ’that the falsehood in that young man’s letter gave proof of a certain delicacy.’

‘Thank you, father,’ replied Rose, very quietly and simply.

It was next morning that the father posted a formal, proper, self-respecting note of invitation, which bore results.

A POOR GENTLEMAN

It was in the drawing-room, after dinner.  Mrs. Charman, the large and kindly hostess, sank into a chair beside her little friend Mrs. Loring, and sighed a question.

‘How do you like Mr. Tymperley?’

‘Very nice.  Just a little peculiar.’

’Oh, he is peculiar!  Quite original.  I wanted to tell you about him before we went down, but there wasn’t time.  Such a very old friend of ours.  My dear husband and he were at school together—­Harrovians.  The sweetest, the most affectionate character!  Too good for this world, I’m afraid; he takes everything so seriously.  I shall never forget his grief at my poor husband’s death.—­I’m telling Mrs. Loring about Mr. Tymperley, Ada.’