On the last day of the week before the examination his confidence suffered something of a shock. It was a raw winter morning, but he had set his heart on taking her into his own hill-country, and she, with her usual sweet submission, but without a hint of enthusiasm, had consented. He had planned to avoid the Halesby side of the range and to approach it from the southern escarpment. Early in the morning he paid a visit to Parkinson’s, the florist’s, in the Arcade, where he bought a bunch of pale, exotic roses: white roses, that should match her own sweetness and fragility. Once she had expressed a general liking for flowers, and since then it had been his delight to give them to her. She mopped up his flowers and his passion with the same dreamy passivity. From the corner of the Place he saw a weedy, black-coated figure in front of Number Ten; and as he approached, the figure entered and the door closed behind him. Edwin wondered vaguely if it might be the parson brother. The landlady opened the door in a flurry. It almost seemed as if she wanted to conceal something. “I don’t think Miss Beaucaire can see you for a bit,” she said. “Won’t you call later in the morning?” He told her that he would wait, as they had an appointment, and a train to catch. “Then will you kindly wait in my room. You mustn’t take any notice of the state it’s in,” she said, still on the defensive. The state of the landlady’s room was not inspiriting. On a dirty table cloth lay the remains of last night’s supper. On the window sill stood a chevaux de frise of empty brandy bottles that Edwin couldn’t help associating with Mrs. Beaucaire. The arm-chairs, covered with dirty chintz overalls that suggested a layer of more ancient dirt beneath, were not inviting. He preferred to stand. The house was as quiet and secretive as usual; but from the next room he heard an irritating rumour of voices. One of the voices, he could have sworn, was Rosie’s. A little later he heard a laugh, and the suspicion became a disquieting certainty, for the laugh was one that he knew well—with a difference. It was as if Mrs. Beaucaire had laughed with Rosie’s voice. He found it difficult to restrain himself from bursting into the room and settling the matter once and for all. Again the laugh—and then a long silence. He heard steps in the passage, a whispered conversation with the landlady, and then Rosie came in to him, flushed, and with her fair hair disordered. He could not speak. He only gave her the roses. “Thank you, Eddie,” she said, scarcely noticing them. Her lips were parted and her eyes shone with excitement. She had never seemed to him more beautiful, but there was something frightening in her beauty. “Whatever is the matter with you?” she said. “Why do you look so serious?” “Who was your visitor?” “Oh, that’s it, is it? You silly boy! You surely don’t mean to say you’re jealous?” “Please tell me—”