Rosalie’s father had been abusing Ibbotsfield and everything that pertained to Ibbotsfield. Some question of expenses had started him. He was storming in his wild way, addressing himself to Rosalie’s mother but haranguing at large to all, everybody sitting in silence and with oppressed faces, avoiding looking at one another and avoiding especially the eyes of father. They were literally ground down with poverty, Rosalie’s father was saying. He didn’t know what was going to happen to them all. “It’s all this place, this infernal, buried-alive place. The girls ought to be moving about and seeing people. How can they? Very well. My mind’s made up. There’s my brother Tom in India. He could have one of the girls. There’s your sister Mrs. Pounce in London. She’s Rosalie’s godmother. What’s she ever done for Rosalie? Very well. My mind’s made up. I shall write to Tom and I shall write to Belle. I shall tell them how we are situated. It’s humiliating to have to tell them but what’s humiliation? I’m accustomed to humiliation. Ever since we came here, I have eaten the bread and drunk the water of humiliation. Now the children are growing up to share it. What can they do in this loathsome and forsaken and miserable place? What chance have the girls got? Can you tell me that?” He glared at Rosalie’s mother. It was clear that he regarded her as to blame. Rosalie thought that her dear mother must be to blame. Her mother looked so beaten and frightened. There was glistening in her eyes. Rosalie’s heart felt utterly desolated for her mother. She wished like anything she could say something for her dear mother. Then most amazingly the chance to say something came. “Can you tell me that?” cried Rosalie’s father. “What chance have the girls of ever meeting men in this infernal place?” Rosalie burst out, “Oh, but father, nearly every day--” “Rosalie, don’t interrupt!” cried Flora very sharply. “Rosalie, be quiet!” cried Hilda. Father glared and then went on and on.