“I can’t think why you never married,” was her reply. “Don’t you see how much wiser that would have been? Everything would have been simplified.” “Rose and I have got on very well alone,” I said. “But how much nicer for Rose to have had a woman’s guidance?” “Why?” I retorted. “On all questions touching life, worldly education and so forth, a man can be as instructive; and in so far as protectiveness goes he can be as tender and as thorough. What remains girls get by instinct. And Rose likes me: that’s another great asset. Supposing that she did not like my wife?” “But that’s being too fantastic.” “Very well, then. Supposing that my wife didn’t like Rose? Women can be very disapproving of each other—very jealous.” “All this doesn’t affect the main thing,” said Mrs. Stratton. “I am still worried by the extreme impropriety of you and my niece living here alone.” “Then tell me,” I said, “what you propose—for you must have some proposition in your mind.” “Rose could come to us,” said Mrs. Stratton. “We are planning to go to the Italian Riviera for the winter—to Nervi.” “But on returning,” I said, “there would be the same opportunities for calumny.” “Might it not be possible to have a companion for her?” Mrs. Stratton asked. “Some nice woman to live here? I know of one I could recommend.” “No,” I said, not without emphasis, “it might not, I will not have any nice woman here. Besides, if I did, what would be the result? Simply more suspicions! I should be thought bigamous instead of merely monogamous.” “Oh no!” said Mrs. Stratton. “I meant an elderly woman.” “Good Heavens!” I exclaimed. * * * * * Mrs. Stratton’s visit was disturbing. I had been looking forward to two years of Rose’s company before the time arrived when she was twenty and would probably want to be independent, and I thought I was entitled to it. These two years were to be very precious—a kind of reward, if you like, for my foster-parental solicitude; and now they were threatened. It was not public opinion that I was fearing, but the self-conscious restrictions that were being forced on me to the ruin of easy natural familiarity. I should always now be wondering if this or that excursion were wise, or what constructions the beastly world would be putting on this or that occurrence. Nothing could be simple and unselfconscious any more! I took the problem to Mrs. O’Gorman. “But you don’t mean to say that this comes as a surprise to you?” she asked, when I had finished the story. “Yes, it did,” I said. “O the poor innocent!” she exclaimed. “And for a doctor too! And haven’t I been telling you about it, for years, here in this very room where we’re sitting?” “Well,” I said, “I hadn’t thought. I was thinking of Rose as a schoolgirl still, not a woman.”