“I don’t know,” said Rose in a worried way. She was quite incapable of coquetry, and her reply was prompted by sheerest indecision.
“Why not?” asked Charlesbury, smiling.
“Oh, lots of reasons. I haven’t got a frock, for one thing. Good-night,” said Rose abruptly.
He did not pursue the question of his invitation, but said good-night to her gently and cordially.
Rose went upstairs again, strangely inclined to burst into tears, and very angry with herself for the inclination.
She bounced into the sitting-room, with a movement habitual to the late Mrs. Smith.
Uncle Alfred was reading The Pawnbrokers’ Gazette and Felix was tidily replacing the cups upon the tea-tray.
Rose helped him in silence, glancing out of the corners of her eyes at the imperturbable Mr. Smith, and affecting unconcern by humming a little tune.
When Felix had departed downstairs with the tray, Rose observed in a detached tone of voice, with her head rather upon one side:
“Well, not one of our successes, on the whole, was it? Of course, Uncle A., I shouldn’t think of saying a word to you, but at the same time——”