“Ma had any headaches lately? I know what ma’s headaches will end in. Cirrhosis of the liver. You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Well, I know all about that. Had it myself. Just realised in time that it didn’t pay. Now I never touch anything but gin. Do you want a word of advice?”
Edwin thanked him.
“May seem funny from a chap that gets two hundred a week for making a damn fool of himself.”
“Not at all,” said Edwin politely.
“Well, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go easy in that direction. Treat it as a business proposition. Ma’s a bad old woman . . . only don’t tell her I said so. You see I’m a friend of the family. Dear little girl, Rosie, too. Verbus Satienti—I always let ’em think I was at Oxford—Good for business.”
It was rather disturbing; for though it was no news to Edwin that Mrs. Beaucaire’s headaches were euphemistic, the fact had done no more than contribute to the ideal qualities with which he had invested her daughter. There was something romantic as well as pitiful in the idea of Rosie’s contrasting innocence: the rose that has its roots in foulness is not less a rose. It had even seemed to him that the complete collapse of Mrs. Beaucaire might throw Rosie into his arms: a situation that would be full of romantic and tender possibilities; and the girl’s inimitably virginal air was enough to convince him that Bertie Flood’s other suggestions were no more than the natural products of a mind degraded by the atmosphere of the music-hall. He was convinced too that he had no cause for jealousy. Ever since he had first visited her, Rosie had never spent more than a few hours of daylight out of his sight.
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.