It was a comfortable, distinguished house. The furniture was good. The right books were scattered about, some in French; the right periodicals. Photographs after the Old Masters. In Rose’s little boudoir were water colours.
After dinner Eustace left us. He had some difficult papers to go through and master, and we were left alone.
Rose established me by the fire and sat beside me on a cushion.
“Is all well with my child?” I asked.
She did not reply.
For a long while we were silent. I could not ask her to tell me more; and she would not volunteer because only half the secret was hers.
“When are you coming to stay with me?” I asked at last.
“Oh, Dombeen, I should love to,” she said. “But it’s impossible. Eustace doesn’t like me to be away, ever. He counts so on my presence here.”
“But he could come too,” I said.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “No. He doesn’t like the house to be left. No, it can’t be done.”