Then they drove home in triumph to the Sauchiehall Road, where the people next door and next again, looked out of their windows to see the splendid vehicle dash up to Mrs. Brown’s, and the baskets of fruit and of flowers that were lifted out. She herself came out to the door to meet them, with her dress rustling, and her gold chain tinkling, and her ruby ribbons floating behind her. “Weel!” she cried, “ye’ve gotten back! and have ye had a grand drive? and eh, the bonnie flowers; but what an extravagance, for they would cost just a fortune; and a handfu’ of sweetpeas is just so pleasant in a room. And the pine aipples! Jims, my man, you’re just a prodigal: but we cannot be severe on you, a man just new come home.” She was very anxious that he would come in “to his tea.” But poor Rowland had borne enough for one day. He made the excuse of business to do and letters to write. “Ou, ay, ye’ll just have Madam to write to, and tell her all about your bonnie bairns,” Mrs. Brown said, with a cloud upon her brow. Yes, thank Heaven, he had madam to write to; but whether he would tell her or not about the children was a matter upon which he could not make up his mind. He drove back to his hotel in solitary splendour, still somewhat ashamed of the hotel carriage, the pretension of the showy vehicle, and the shabby horses. Should he tell Evelyn all about the children? It seemed almost a disloyalty to poor Mary who was gone, to confide his disappointment in her children to any one, above all to the wife who had taken her place, though at so long an interval of years that he felt no disloyalty in that. If Evelyn had been with him, her sympathy would have been his best solace, and she would have found something to say that would have been a comfort to him. He was certain of that--something that would prove to him that things were not so bad as they seemed, that they would mend. But to put it in black and white, to put the disappointment of his soul into words, was what he could not do. He did not even feel sure that he wanted her to know it. If he could only keep his opinions to himself, pretend that they were all he could desire, and leave her to find out! It was quite possible that she would be more tolerant than he; her pride would not be injured as his was by the shortcomings of those who were his own. She would not feel the mortification, the disappointment, and perhaps she would not even see so much to find fault with in them. She had finer insight than he had; she was more charitable. She would see all the good there was, and not so much of the vulgarity. What did she know about vulgarity? She would think, perhaps, it was characteristic, original, Scotch. Rowland had listened often grimly enough to such fashionable views of manner and deportment. He had heard a man, whom he considered a brute, explained away in this manner. Evelyn might take that view. So he locked up his chief trouble in his own mind, and wrote to her that delightful letter,