“Doctors shouldn’t have wives any more than actors should,” I would say. “No one should marry unless he is going to keep some kind of hours; and doctors can’t. Not at least until they’re specialists and receive patients in Harley Street from ten to one; and by that time they’re crystallized fossils. Parsons should marry—and, as a matter of fact, conspicuously do so—and stockbrokers and lawyers and country squires and most other people; but not doctors.” “Well, it’s just as well for my rheumatism that your father had different views,” was the reply. “Not that you do me any good,” she hastened to add, “but it’s comforting to have a doctor about the place, and you’re something to talk to. You listen well.” So she would run on. But she did not talk like this when Rose was with her. She drew then on her memory and fancy for all that was gay and amusing; brought out old scrap-books; disinterred a musical-box from the lumber-room; and had an amazing ancient dolls’-house put into thorough repair both inside and out. Rose was happier with Mrs. O’Gorman than with anyone but, I hope, me. * * * * * I had, of course, patients in whose houses I should not care for Rose to be intimate; and it was not easy for me to repel their friendly advances. But Rose was capable, if she met them when out walking, of replying to overtures with the firmest refusals. Child as she was, she knew her own mind, and she was not old enough or weak enough to have any preoccupation with the feelings of others. It was not callousness: not at all; but it was not in her nature to adapt herself—not yet, nor would it ever be to any great extent, except for the most serious reasons. She was in a playground, and her play had so far always been with congenial spirits: why should it be otherwise? So she felt. I had been brought up differently. I had been brought up to think of others; to spare sensibilities even to the extent of prevarication; to say “No” where I would rather have said “Yes” if I thought that “No” would be more agreeable to the other person involved: to pass the salt; to be self-denying. Rose’s father had no such attitude towards others, nor did he impose it on his daughter. He had considered the world his orange, and Rose was disposed to do the same. She had no tendency to be grasping or greedy; she had that sense of hospitality to which politeness is a corollary; while her good humour and sense of fun and laughter also made her naturally a dispenser of happiness. But nothing prevented her from telling the truth, neither fear nor favour. How I used to envy her this!