“The vicar came from a very old family. In the North it is recognised, but in a place like North Bromwich it is very difficult for us to meet the right sort of people. I have to be very careful for Rosie’s sake. The child is so trusting. I was so glad, you know, when she told me that she had met you at Miss Latham’s. One feels so safe with a doctor. You’ll be able to look after her a bit . . . see that she don’t get too tired. Pantomime is very tiring, you know. I myself suffer agonies from indigestion. What with that and my headaches, I’m afraid I’m a poor companion for her. As I say, both the children take after the dear vicar. Rosie isn’t a bit like me.” “No,” said Edwin, still dazed by the memory of her smile; but, as he spoke, his eyes met those of Mrs. Beaucaire, and he saw to his amazement that they were really the eyes of Rosie, that her discoloured nose had once been of the same shape as her daughter’s, that the sagging, sensual mouth was in fact a degraded version of Rosie’s too. It was a revelation, blasphemous but prophetic. He would not consider it. He dared not look at her. A moment later Bertie Flood left them. Tea wasn’t much in his line, he said, and his complexion confirmed the assertion. Mrs. Beaucaire saw him to the door. Edwin and Rosie were alone. It was a wonderful minute. He felt that she could never seem more beautiful, more delicate, more exquisite than at this moment standing in her pale loveliness against the grimy lodging-house wallpaper, with her hands clasped before her. “I had to come,” he said. “I had been expecting you. I’m awfully glad you found time.” Found time! . . . He wanted to tell her of his strange adventure of the night before: how he had stood in the dripping rain beneath her window, hungry for the sight of her, unsatisfied. She stood as though she would be glad to listen; but there was no time. Mrs. Beaucaire, after a noisy and pointed demonstration in the hall, re-entered. It seemed that there was nothing left for him but to take his departure. “Surely you’re not going so soon?” she said. And he stayed. It was all delightfully intimate and domestic. These people seemed to possess the rare faculty of putting a visitor as shy as Edwin at his ease. Mrs. Beaucaire did most of the talking, enlarging on Rosie’s devotion to the parson brother, regretting that circumstance, and possibly the unreasonable prejudice of country people against theatrical connections, had deprived him of the family living: and Rosie listened quietly, more compelling in her demure silences than Mrs. Beaucaire at her most impressive.