“But,”—she was thinking—“although the visit to the Strattons is over, I shall have to be away a good deal, if not altogether, because it’s not suitable for Dombeen and me to be alone in this house. People are going to talk—and I couldn’t allow Dombeen to have to suffer from that.” Such were her thoughts—the fruit of Milly Stratton’s insinuations. That she herself would suffer did not matter. Eighteen can look after itself, but forty-five must be carefully guarded—that is how she would have argued. Eighteen is too immature, but forty-five, although, of course, an incredibly advanced age, lends itself to scandal, and doctors must have sound reputations. Then set in a broken period which I look back upon without pleasure. All parents, I suppose, have to go through similar seasons, when misunderstandings or a want of sympathy alienate them from their children, or their children from them. During the time of dependence things can be all right, and again after independence is attained; but when the wings are beginning to sprout, sons and daughters have it in them to be more than difficult. How much of it have I seen! I was no parent myself, and Rose was not pining for independence; but she was restless and disturbed because of me: she did not want to go away, but thought that she ought to, knowing that I could not. At last I could stand it no longer. “Look here, Rose,” I said, “what’s the matter? You’re not happy. Tell me why.” “It’s difficult to explain,” she said. “Then I will,” I said. “You are persuaded that it is unsuitable for us to be together here alone. Your dear Aunt Milly suggested the idea, and you can’t forget it. You think people will talk.” “Oh! Dombeen,” she said, “when did you take to clairvoyance?” “When your pretty head became transparent,” I replied. “Well, what is to be done? If you feel like that you must go away—or—” “Yes—or what?” “Well, if you were to become engaged I suppose that everybody would be satisfied and we could go on as we are. Our only saviour is that punctual husband, with the tall hat and the fish-basket. And he’s not yet on the horizon.” “No,” she said. * * * * * I soon began to have proofs of the accuracy of the Stratton prediction. It is extraordinary—especially in a country district where no one in easy circumstances has enough to do—how intensely interesting the affairs of other people, neighbours chiefly, can be, and how difficult it is not to be inquisitive and censorious. I don’t suggest that in a city there are no meddlesome onlookers, with fingers sharpened for pies that do not belong to them; but in a city there are more distractions and there are also certain impediments to familiarity. In the country you are bound, unless there has been a feud, to know your neighbours; but one may live at No. 5 in a London terrace for half a century and never meet the occupants of No. 4 and No. 6.