a glass of water on the table. I hope I'm not
doing a rude thing in asking whether they were left by accident.'

He had the flowers in his hand, their stems carefully protected by a piece
of paper. For a moment Rose was incapable of replying; she looked at the
speaker; she felt her cheeks burn; in utter embarrassment she said she knew
not what.

'Oh!--thank you! I forgot them. It's very kind.'

Her hand touched his as she took the bouquet from him. Without another word
the man turned and strode away.

Mr. Whiston had seen nothing of this. When he approached, Rose held up the
flowers with a laugh.

'Wasn't it kind? I forgot them, you know, and some one from the inn came
looking for me.'

'Very good of them, very,' replied her father graciously. 'A very nice inn,
that. We'll go again--some day. One likes to encourage such civility; it's
rare nowadays.'

He of the red hair travelled by the same train, though not in the same
carriage. Rose caught sight of him at the seaside station. She was vexed
with herself for having so scantily acknowledged his kindness; it seemed to
her that she had not really thanked him at all; how absurd, at her age, to
be incapable of common self-command! At the same time she kept thinking of
her father's phrase, 'coarse, gross creatures,' and it vexed her even more
than her own ill behaviour. The stranger was certainly not coarse, far from
gross. Even his talk about beer (she remembered every word of it) had been
amusing rather than offensive. Was he a 'gentleman'? The question agitated
her; it involved so technical a definition, and she felt so doubtful as to
the reply. Beyond doubt he had acted in a gentlemanly way; but his voice
lacked something. Coarse? Gross? No, no, no! Really, her father was very
severe, not to say uncharitable. But perhaps he was thinking of the heavy
agricultural man; oh, he must have been!

Of a sudden she felt very weary. At the lodgings she sat down in her
bedroom, and gazed through the open window at the sea. A sense of
discouragement, hitherto almost unknown, had fallen upon her; it spoilt the
blue sky and the soft horizon. She thought rather drearily of the townward
journey to-morrow, of her home in the suburbs, of the endless monotony that
awaited her. The flowers lay on her lap; she smelt them, dreamed over them.
And then--strange incongruity--she thought of beer!

Between tea and supper she and her father rested on the beach. Mr. Whiston
was reading. Ro