“Have you any objection to telling me why you decided to come to England this year?” he inquired, with a casual air, after the pause which she did not fill in. The bluntness of the question did not seem to disturb her. She was not sorry, in fact, that he had asked it. She let her work lie upon her knee, and leaned back in her low garden chair, her hands resting upon its wicker arms. She turned on him a clear unprejudiced gaze. “I came to see Rosy. I have always been very fond of her. I did not believe that she had forgotten how much we had loved her, or how much she had loved us. I knew that if I could see her again I should understand why she had seemed to forget us.” “And when you saw her, you, of course, decided that I had behaved, to quote my own words--like a blackguard and a fool.” “It is, of course, very rude to say you have behaved like a fool, but--if you'll excuse my saying so--that is what has impressed me very much. Don't you know,” with a moderation, which singularly drove itself home, “that if you had been kind to her, and had made her happy, you could have had anything you wished for--without trouble?” This was one of the unadorned facts which are like bullets. Disgustedly, he found himself veering towards an outlook which forced him to admit that there was probably truth in what she said, and he knew he heard more truth as she went on. “She would have wanted only what you wanted, and she would not have asked much in return. She would not have asked as much as I should. What you did was not businesslike.” She paused a moment to give thought to it. “You paid too high a price for the luxury of indulging the inherited temperament. Your luxury was not to control it. But it was a bad investment.” “The figure of speech is rather commercial,” coldly. “It is curious that most things are, as a rule. There is always the parallel of profit and loss whether one sees it or not. The profits are happiness and friendship--enjoyment of life and approbation. If the inherited temperament supplies one with all one wants of such things, it cannot be called a loss, of course.” “You think, however, that mine has not brought me much?” “I do not know. It is you who know.” “Well,” viciously, “there HAS been a sort of luxury in it in lashing out with one's heels, and smashing things--and in knowing that people prefer to keep clear.” She lifted her shoulders a little. “Then perhaps it has paid.” “No,” suddenly and fiercely, “damn it, it has not!” And she actually made no reply to that. “What do you mean to do?” he questioned as bluntly as before. He knew she would understand what he meant. “Not much. To see that Rosy is not unhappy any more. We can prevent that. She was out of repair--as the house was. She is being rebuilt and decorated. She knows that she will be taken care of.”