In the evening she appeared to Tanqueray, punctual and subservient, wearing the same air of reticence and distance with which she had waited on him first. He was to see, it seemed to say, that she was only little Rose Eldred, his servant, to whom it was not proper that he should speak. But he did speak. He put his back to the door she would have escaped by, and kept her prisoned there, utterly in his power. Rose, thus besieged, delivered her ultimatum. "Well," she said, "you take a year to think it over sensible." "A year?" "A year. And if you're in the same mind then as you are now, p'raps I won't say no." "A year? But in a year I may be dead." "You come to me," said Rose, "if you're dyin'." "And you'll have me then?" he said savagely. "Yes. I'll 'ave you then." But, though all night Tanqueray by turns raged and languished, it was Rose who, in the morning, looked about to die. Not that he saw her. He never saw her all that day. And at evening he listened in vain for her call at the gate, her salutation to the night: "Min--Min--Minny! Puss--Puss--Puss!" For in the afternoon Rose left the house, attended by her uncle, who carried by its cord her little trunk. In her going forth she wore a clean white linen gown. She wore, not the Hat, nor yet the sad thing that Tanqueray had sat on, but a little black bonnet, close as a cap, with a black velvet bow in the front, and black velvet strings tied beneath her chin. It was the dress she had worn when she was nurse in a gentleman's family. V Late in the evening of that day, Tanqueray, as he sat in miserable meditation, was surprised by the appearance of Mrs. Eldred. She held in her hand Rose's hat, the hat he had given her, which she placed before him on the table. "You'll be good enough, sir," said Mrs. Eldred, "to take that back." "Why should I take it back?" he replied, with that artificial gaiety which had been his habitual defence against the approaches of Mrs. Eldred. "Because, it was all very well for you to offer Rose wot you did, sir, and she'd no call to refuse it. But a 'at's different. There's meanin'," said Mrs. Eldred, "in a 'at." Tanqueray looked at the hat. "Meaning? If you knew all the meaning there is in that hat, Mrs. Eldred, you'd feel, as I do, that you knew _something_. Half the poetry that's been written has less meaning in it than that hat. That hat fulfills all the requirements of poetry. It is simple--extremely simple--and sensuous and passionate. Yes, passionate. It would be impossible to conceive a hat less afflicted with the literary taint. It stands, as I see it, for emotion reduced to its last and purest expression. In short, Mrs. Eldred, what that hat doesn't mean isn't worth meaning." "If you'd explain _your_ meaning, sir, I should be obliged." "I am explaining it. My meaning, Mrs. Eldred, is that Rose wore that hat." "I know she did, sir, and she 'adn't ought to 'ave wore it. I'm only askin' _you_, sir, to be good enough to take it back."