“The master wished to speak to you when you returned,” the attendant at the door said to her when he answered it. Rosalie crossed the hall, feeling that vague sense of satisfaction that generally accompanies honesty, and which at times appears so poor a recompense. This time on knocking she waited for the answer. When it came she opened the door and entered. Mr. Barringcourt was in the act of filing papers, and generally tidying up the littered table. “You are quite punctual,” said he. “And what is more, astoundingly honest.” “You did not expect I should return, then?” “No! Honestly speaking, I thought I had seen the last of you.” She shook her head. “Gratitude brought me back at the expense of inclination.” “You should have yielded to temptation, and run away.” “Perhaps my action in returning was not quite so commendable as you think. I was much tempted to run away, and then—” “What?” “I could find no place to go to.” “You have no appreciative friends?” “Not one.” “The doctor?” Rosalie looked up quickly, and flushed. “Why do you speak of him?” “I’m sure I don’t know,” he answered drily; “I believe I was meaning myself.” “Oh—yes—of course,” stammered Rosalie. “I thought you meant Dr. Kaye.” “Then you had notions of appealing to him?” Rosalie laughed. “You are not the pleasantest of companions.” “You might as well make a confidant of me. I am the only one you will find for some time.” “Well, yes, then,” she answered, looking across at him with a timid glance. “I thought of running to the doctor, informing him you intended making a prisoner of me in a free city, and asking him to give me the benefit of his protection and advice.” “And you thought better of it?” “You told me if I was grateful I should return. I was grateful, and though there seems something very topsy-turvy about the recompense you ask for, there is something in it that appeals to my sense of justice.” “That is why you came back?” “There is no other reason.” Mr. Barringcourt all this time had been sitting in his chair by the table. Rosalie was standing at the farther side of it. Now he got up and walked over to the fireplace, where the fire was burning brightly. “What is your name?” he asked. “Rosalie Paleaf.” “Brought up by an aunt and uncle?” “Yes.” “Always dumb, and therefore very much out of the world?” “Yes.” “Where did you learn the little bit of knowledge you possess?” “I listened to it. I was not deaf, you know.” “Could you read?” “Yes, I can read. That is how I used to spend most of my time.” “Travels, novels, or biography?” “A little bit of both—all three, I mean. ‘The Life of Krimjo on the Desert Island,’ which was my favourite, contained a little of all, I think.” “Ally Krimjo was only make-belief,” said he ruthlessly. “Indeed he wasn’t! He had gone through everything he spoke about, the shipwreck and the loneliness, the savages and everything. Make-belief! Oh, Mr. Barringcourt, have you ever really read it through?”