During this time Lady Flamington, young, beautiful, much courted and admired, died. It caused a great sensation at the time, because she had only been ill a week, and the doctor had great hopes of recovery because she was strong. But it was double pneumonia, and whereas many a poor person less well attended to gets well and strong again, she, with all attention, passed away. Rosalie, though knowing comparatively little of her, was somehow much affected by her death. Sir John went to the funeral, and she was put away in a manner that would have done many a poor person’s heart good. The next morning was bright and frosty, and Rosalie took an early walk in the Park. Walking there, she met Mr. Barringcourt, and as it was daylight, and the frog was with her, she did not beat a retreat. She expected to find him doleful, searched his face for the usual signs, but found nothing. She remembered Mariana’s words, and thought there must be truth in them. “You are out early,” he said. “Yes. I left Miss Crokerly feeding the birds and cleaning the cages. She prefers to do it alone, so I don’t offer to help her.” “You are happier with her than you were with me.” “Of course. I was not at all happy with you, Mr. Barringcourt. You knew it.” “I don’t think you waited long enough to find out.” “I escaped by the first open door, in case none other should present itself.” “Which door was that?” “That is my little secret. You must be as charming as charming to me, and I will be sure never to let you know.” He laughed. “Mariana again?” “Yes, Mariana,” said Rosalie, suddenly standing still and looking up at him, for they had walked along together. “How is Mariana? I want to see her again.” “Oh, she is perfectly well, I think,” he answered. “But you cannot see her. The guest of Sir John Crokerly cannot fraternise with a housemaid.” “When did you find me a snob?” asked Rosalie. “Of course I can see her. I—I should have written and asked her to call and see me, only things in your house aren’t quite on the highest principle.” And Rosalie’s nose went one degree higher, and she drew her skirts more severely round her, and moved quite half an inch further away as they walked along. “What do you mean?” “Well, the postman would do his part of the work, but I doubt whether Everard would.” “Then, if you don’t trust Everard, why not call yourself?” Rosalie’s eyes opened. “Do you mean to say if I wouldn’t trust a letter I should trust myself? How you reason, Mr. Barringcourt.” “You could neither be torn up nor burned.” “No. But it is my firm intention never to enter Marble House again.” “You are the young lady who once said you never had run away, and never intended to.” Her ears began to burn. “To recall things that are past is mean—and—and abominable.” “I am not recalling things. I merely wish to point out to you people always do the things they say they won’t do.”