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Rose was stirring her tea; also she was smiling. She continued to stir and to smile, without consciousness of either performance.

‘You make light of it?’ exclaimed her father solemnly.

‘O father, of course I am sorry you have had this annoyance.’

So little was there of manifest sorrow in the girl’s tone and countenance that Mr. Whiston gazed at her rather indignantly. His pregnant pause gave birth to one of those admonitory axioms which had hitherto ruled his daughter’s life.

‘My dear, I advise you never to trifle with questions of propriety. Could there possibly be a better illustration of what I have so often said–that in self-defence we are bound to keep strangers at a distance?’

‘Father’

Rose began firmly, but her voice failed.

‘You were going to say, Rose?’

She took her courage in both hands.

‘Will you allow me to see the letters?’

‘Certainly. There can be no objection to that.’

He drew from his pocket the three envelopes, held them to his daughter. With shaking hand Rose unfolded the first letter; it was written in clear commercial character, and was signed ‘Charles James Burroughs.’ When she had read all, the girl said quietly–

‘Are you quite sure, father, that these letters are impertinent?’

Mr. Whiston stopped in the act of finger-combing his beard.

‘What doubt can there be of it?’

‘They seem to me,’ proceeded Rose nervously, ‘to be very respectful and very honest.’

‘My dear, you astound me! Is it respectful to force one’s acquaintance upon an unwilling stranger? I really don’t understand you. Where is your sense of propriety, Rose? A vulgar, noisy fellow, who talks of beer and tobacco–a petty clerk! And he has the audacity to write to me that he wants to–to make friends with my daughter! Respectful? Honest? Really!’

When Mr. Whiston became sufficiently agitated to lose his decorous gravity, he began to splutter, and at such moments he was not impressive. Rose kept her eyes cast down. She felt her strength once more, the strength of a wholly reasonable and half-passionate revolt against that tyrannous propriety which Mr. Whiston worshipped.

‘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.