Hitherto I had been on terms of pleasant and easy intimacy with most of my patients; and where there was less cordiality it was probably not my fault. A certain interest in my affairs had been shown—there had been questions as to my biggest break recently, as to what I was sending to the Flower Show, the size of marrows, the chance of the Isle of Wight disease among the hives, and, of course, inquiries after Rose. But no more. No one had ventured to give advice. But now I began to detect admonitory symptoms, fumblings towards counsel as to conduct. Lady Fergusson, for example, Ronnie’s mother, after a long talk about pelargoniums, wondered if it were true that dear Rose was going to the Riviera with the Strattons. So nice for her to be with young people. So nice to be able to go away. It was much to be hoped that nothing would interfere. How fortunate some girls were! In her youth there had been no such gadding about. And so forth. Then the rector’s wife, Mrs. Cumnor, a good enough woman in her way but overburdened with family cares—not however so overburdened that she had no time or strength left to take on the cares of others as well: mine and Rose’s, for instance; she too began to cut in. Rose, she said one morning, after I had finished with her second daughter’s pulse, chest and temperature, was, she knew, never ill. How enviable a state! And so active and clever too. Now that she had finished with school she would, of course, with such a constitution, go out into the world. “Might not her vocation be at home?” I asked. “Of course it would be hard for you to have to lose her,” Mrs. Cumnor conceded, “terribly hard; but—” and then she changed the subject. Her husband, who had clearly been put up by his wife to contribute something to the campaign, was more jovial about it: wondering if any young men would dare to propose to a girl who was always in the company of such a handsome guardian. Was it fair to Rose to have a resident spoilsport? And so on—with plenty of hearty laughter as an ameliorative. Mrs. O’Gorman confirmed my fears as to the neighbourhood’s determination. “The whole pack’s in full cry after you,” she said. “You’re too happy for them: they can’t bear the sight of it. You’re free too—and so many of them are shackled for life and full of nasty envy. It’s not the best possible world! And yet,” she went on, “it’s the only one I want. Perfection would be very boring.” “What shall we do?” I asked. “We are beaten.” “Yes, I’m afraid you’re beaten. The pack has won. But it’s only anticipating your fate by a few months. All parents have to lose their children, and you’ve been luckier than most. Rose is certain sure to marry, and marry young too, so you’d have lost her at twenty any way, if not before. She’s on the road to nineteen now, and you mustn’t grumble.” “And what is there left for me?” I asked.