He had the flowers in his hand, their stems carefully protected by a piece of paper. For a moment Rose was incapable of replying; she looked at the speaker; she felt her cheeks burn; in utter embarrassment she said she knew not what. 'Oh!--thank you! I forgot them. It's very kind.' Her hand touched his as she took the bouquet from him. Without another word the man turned and strode away. Mr. Whiston had seen nothing of this. When he approached, Rose held up the flowers with a laugh. 'Wasn't it kind? I forgot them, you know, and some one from the inn came looking for me.' 'Very good of them, very,' replied her father graciously. 'A very nice inn, that. We'll go again--some day. One likes to encourage such civility; it's rare nowadays.' He of the red hair travelled by the same train, though not in the same carriage. Rose caught sight of him at the seaside station. She was vexed with herself for having so scantily acknowledged his kindness; it seemed to her that she had not really thanked him at all; how absurd, at her age, to be incapable of common self-command! At the same time she kept thinking of her father's phrase, 'coarse, gross creatures,' and it vexed her even more than her own ill behaviour. The stranger was certainly not coarse, far from gross. Even his talk about beer (she remembered every word of it) had been amusing rather than offensive. Was he a 'gentleman'? The question agitated her; it involved so technical a definition, and she felt so doubtful as to the reply. Beyond doubt he had acted in a gentlemanly way; but his voice lacked something. Coarse? Gross? No, no, no! Really, her father was very severe, not to say uncharitable. But perhaps he was thinking of the heavy agricultural man; oh, he must have been! Of a sudden she felt very weary. At the lodgings she sat down in her bedroom, and gazed through the open window at the sea. A sense of discouragement, hitherto almost unknown, had fallen upon her; it spoilt the blue sky and the soft horizon. She thought rather drearily of the townward journey to-morrow, of her home in the suburbs, of the endless monotony that awaited her. The flowers lay on her lap; she smelt them, dreamed over them. And then--strange incongruity--she thought of beer! Between tea and supper she and her father rested on the beach. Mr. Whiston was reading. Rose pretended to turn the leaves of a book. Of a sudden, as unexpectedly to herself as to her companion, she broke silence. 'Don't you think, father, that we are too much afraid of talking with strangers?' 'Too much afraid?' Mr. Whiston was puzzled. He had forgotten all about the incident at the dinner-table. 'I mean--what harm is there in having a little conversation when one is away from home? At the inn to-day, you know, I can't help thinking we were rather--perhaps a little too silent.' 'My dear Rose, did you want to talk about beer?' She reddened, but answered all the more emphatically.