If he had chosen his time for finding her at a disadvantage, he could have done no better.  Perhaps he has chosen it.  Helena Landless is gone, Mrs. Tisher is absent on leave, Miss Twinkleton (in her amateur state of existence) has contributed herself and a veal pie to a picnic.

‘O why, why, why, did you say I was at home!’ cried Rosa, helplessly.

The maid replies, that Mr. Jasper never asked the question.

That he said he knew she was at home, and begged she might be told that he asked to see her.

‘What shall I do! what shall I do!’ thinks Rosa, clasping her hands.

Possessed by a kind of desperation, she adds in the next breath, that she will come to Mr. Jasper in the garden.  She shudders at the thought of being shut up with him in the house; but many of its windows command the garden, and she can be seen as well as heard there, and can shriek in the free air and run away.  Such is the wild idea that flutters through her mind.

She has never seen him since the fatal night, except when she was questioned before the Mayor, and then he was present in gloomy watchfulness, as representing his lost nephew and burning to avenge him.  She hangs her garden-hat on her arm, and goes out.  The moment she sees him from the porch, leaning on the sun-dial, the old horrible feeling of being compelled by him, asserts its hold upon her.  She feels that she would even then go back, but that he draws her feet towards him.  She cannot resist, and sits down, with her head bent, on the garden-seat beside the sun-dial.  She cannot look up at him for abhorrence, but she has perceived that he is dressed in deep mourning.  So is she.  It was not so at first; but the lost has long been given up, and mourned for, as dead.

He would begin by touching her hand.  She feels the intention, and draws her hand back.  His eyes are then fixed upon her, she knows, though her own see nothing but the grass.

‘I have been waiting,’ he begins, ’for some time, to be summoned back to my duty near you.’

After several times forming her lips, which she knows he is closely watching, into the shape of some other hesitating reply, and then into none, she answers:  ‘Duty, sir?’

’The duty of teaching you, serving you as your faithful music-master.’

‘I have left off that study.’

’Not left off, I think.  Discontinued.  I was told by your guardian that you discontinued it under the shock that we have all felt so acutely.  When will you resume?’

‘Never, sir.’

‘Never?  You could have done no more if you had loved my dear boy.’

‘I did love him!’ cried Rosa, with a flash of anger.

’Yes; but not quite—­not quite in the right way, shall I say?  Not in the intended and expected way.  Much as my dear boy was, unhappily, too self-conscious and self-satisfied (I’ll draw no parallel between him and you in that respect) to love as he should have loved, or as any one in his place would have loved—­must have loved!’