With a closed door behind him he sat down and looked over his letters. Bills, proofs from the "Monthly Review," a letter from Laura that saddened him (he had not realized that Prothero was so ill). Last of all, at the bottom of the pile, a little note from Rose. She had got it all into five lines. Five lines, rather straggling, rather shapeless lines that told him with a surprising brevity that his wife had decided on an informal separation, for his good. No resentment, no reproach, no passion and no postscript. He went down-stairs by no means noiselessly. In the hall, as he was putting on his hat, Susan came to him. She gave him a queer look. Dinner was ready, she said. The mistress had ordered the dinner that he liked. (Irrepressibly, insistently, thick with intolerable reminiscence, the savour of it streamed through the kitchen door.) The mistress had cooked it herself, Susan said. The mistress had told Susan that she was to be sure and make him very comfortable, and to remember what he liked for dinner. Susan's manner was a little shy and a little important, it suggested the inauguration of a new rule, a new order, a life in which Rose was not and never would be. Tanqueray took no notice whatever of Susan as he strode out of the house. The lights were dim in the corner house by the Heath, opposite the willows. Still, standing on the upper ground of the Heath, he could see across the road through the window of his old sitting-room, and there, in his old chair by the fireside he made out a solitary seated figure that looked like Rose. He came out from under the willows and made for the front door. He pushed past the little maid who opened it and strode into the room. Rose turned. There was a slight stir and hesitation, then a greeting, very formal and polite on both sides, and with Joey all the time leaping and panting and licking Tanqueray's hands. Joey's demonstration was ignored as much too emotional for the occasion. A remark from Rose about the weather. Inquiries from Tanqueray as to the health of Mr. and Mrs. Eldred. Further inquiries as to the health of Rose. Silence. "May I turn the light up?" (From Tanqueray.) "I'd rather you let it be?" (From Rose.) He let it be. "Rose" (very suddenly from Tanqueray), "do you remember Mr. Robinson?" (No response.) "Rose, why are you sitting in this room?" "Because I like it." "Why do you like it?" (No response; only a furtive movement of Rose's hand towards her pocket-handkerchief. A sudden movement of Tanqueray's, restrained, so that he appeared to have knelt on the hearthrug to caress the little dog. A long and silent stroking of Joey's back. Demonstration of ineffable affection from Joey.) "His hair never _has_ come on, has it? Do you know" (very gravely), "I'm afraid it never will." (A faint quiver of Rose's mouth which might or might not have been a smile.) "Rose, why did you marry me? Wouldn't any other hairless little dog have done as well?" (A deep sigh from Rose.)