"We've half-an-hour yet before we need go in. I want to talk to you." He led her through the willows, and up the green slope opposite the house. There was a bench on the top, and he made her sit on it beside him. "I suppose," he said, "you think that when we go in I shall let you wait on me, and it'll be just the same as it was before?" "Yes, sir. Just the same." "It won't, Rose, it can't. You may wait on me to-night, but I shall go away to-morrow." She turned her face to him, it was dumb with its trouble. "Oh no--no, sir--don't go away." "I must. But before I go, I want to ask you if you'll be my wife----" The hands she held clasped in her lap gripped each other tight. Her mouth was set. "I'm asking you now, Rose. To be my wife. My wife," he repeated fiercely, as if he repelled with violence a contrary suggestion. "I can't be your wife, sir," she said. "Why not?" "Because," she said simply, "I'm not a lady." At that Tanqueray cried, "Ah," as if she had hurt him. "No, sir, I'm not, and you mustn't think of it." "I shall think of nothing else, and talk of nothing else, until you say yes." She shook her little head; and from the set of her chin he was aware of the extreme decision of her character. He refrained from any speech. His hand sought hers, for he remembered how, just now, she had unbent at the holding of her hand. But she drew it gently away. "No," said she. "I look at it sensible. I can see how it is. You've been ill, and you're upset, and you don't know what you're doin'--sir." "I do--madam." She smiled and drew back her smile as she had drawn back her head. She was all for withdrawal. Tanqueray in his attempt had let go the parcel that he held. She seized it in a practical, business-like manner which had the perfect touch of finality. Then she rose and went back to the house, and he followed her, still pleading, still protesting. But Rose made herself more than ever deaf and dumb. When he held the gate open for her she saw her advantage, darted in, and vanished (his divinity!) down the area steps. She went up-stairs to her little garret, and there, first of all, she looked at herself in the glass. Her face was strange to her under the black hat with its sweeping feather. She shook her head severely at the person in the glass. She made her take off the hat with the feather and put it by with that veneration which attends the disposal of a best hat. The other one, the one with the roses, she patted and pulled and caressed affectionately, till she had got it back into something of the shape it had been, to serve for second best. Then she wished she had left it as it was. She loved them both, the new one because he had given it her, and the old one because he had sat on it. Finally she smoothed her hair to an extreme sleekness, put on a clean apron and went down-stairs.