“It’s odd, isn’t it, how these musicians—Julia, go and get the Doctor a glass of sherry and some cake—it’s odd, isn’t it, that no woman can resist them? Now, a fiddler I can understand. He stands up to it and makes those fine movements with his delicate hands; but a pianist, all bent over the box, banging away—what can they see in him? “And tell me, what are you doing about Rose’s music? She ought to be taking lessons. A girl’s out of it if she can’t play some instrument, and it’s useful too if a dance should be improvised. Let’s see—has she good arms? If she has, she ought to play the fiddle, or the harp, only the harp’s so clumsy to take about. You want a cab every time. But it’s a lovely instrument. I heard Jenny Lind sing to a harp—the sweetest voice. There’s some fellow in the ‘Saturday Review’ this week says that Patti has never been approached: but Jenny Lind was worth a thousand of her. Patti has too much art: you notice it; Jenny Lind made you forget everything but the music. Has Rose any voice? I must get her to sing to me when you bring her over next. But you bring her so seldom. “There’s no need to be jealous of me, you know, I’m only an old woman. But you’ll be getting jealous of all the men directly; you won’t be able to help it. Every day she’s growing up, you know, and every day some boy you’ve probably never heard of is growing up too—you don’t know where he is, and Rose doesn’t know, and he’s never heard of Rose. There he is, somewhere, in his little Eton jacket, with big ears and a snub nose as likely as not, and every minute he’s drawing nearer to Rose and she’s drawing nearer to him. And neither of them knowing a thing about it! Isn’t that terrible? Just Fate arranging everything and we all out in the cold; and no one so out in the cold as the parents and guardians! “And what about yourself,” she went on, for she was remorseless where the relations of the sexes were concerned. “How old are you? Thirty-five, shall we say? And Rose is seven. Ah! Then when she’s twenty you’ll be forty-eight—the dangerous age! That’s the time for you to look out, Doctor. You’ll want all your strength of mind then, because we mustn’t marry our wards, you know.” “Mrs. O’Gorman!” I protested. “Nonsense!” she went on. “What’s the matter with facing the facts? If every one would do it this world would be a sweeter place. But why don’t you marry, anyway? What’s the matter with us? Do you hate us?” “I’m too busy,” I said. “Life is too full.” “Wait till you lose your pretty Rosy, and then you’ll be feeling the draught,” she retorted. “Ah, Doctor, Doctor, it’s a sad old age you’re building up for yourself; and you don’t play cards either. A sad old age!”