“So that her own head is safe, the rest cannot be helped,” said Graeme, with a little vexation. It was not Harry’s words, so much as his tone, that she disliked. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh! as to that, I am not sure. I don’t think she tried to help it. Why should she? It is her natural and proper sphere of labour—her vocation. I think she enjoyed it, rather.”
“Harry, don’t! I can’t bear to hear you speak of Rose in that way.”
“Oh! my speaking of it can’t make any difference, you know; and if you don’t believe me, you can ask Charlie. He is my authority for the last bit of news of Rosie.”
Charlie looked up astonished and indignant, and reddened as he met Graeme’s eye.
“I don’t understand you, Harry—the least in the world,” said he.
“Do you mean to say you have forgotten the postscript I saw in Rowland’s letter about Mr Green and his hopes and intentions? Come, now, Charlie, that is a little too much.”
“Mr Green!” repeated Arthur and Fanny, in a breath.
“Are we never to have done with that unhappy man?” said Graeme, indignantly.
“The idea of Rose ever looking at him!” said Fanny.