“Well you should hear Rosie. I’m sure you would like it—but I’m afraid the piano hasn’t been tuned—”
“Please don’t, mother!”
“After all we have paid for you, Rosie! Rosie!”
“Some other time,” pleaded Marcus; “it’s so hot indoors.”
“Do you find it hot? Sandy, let Mr. Maitland sit next the door; there, do move, Mr. Maitland! Auntie, make room for Mr. Maitland and Rosie.” She shook her head, “She can’t hear. Well, shall we go out, then?”
Marcus stepped out into the fresh, cool air with a sigh of deepest thankfulness. Even the girl who trod the red-bricked path beside him he could forgive for daring to fall in love with him. The mother for trying to catch him he should never forgive; but there was something attractive about Rosie. “Shall we sit here?” she asked when they reached the sands. He would rather she had left it to him to choose the place; but in full view of the whole watering-place and that a favourite one, there should be no immediate danger. Under the shelter of a rock they sat. Yes—she was attractive—he could see no reason why she should marry as the old lady in the bath-chair had imagined she should. Surely there must be something between Marcus Maitland and that other man? Rose knew how to be quiet, which was a great thing in woman.—She stuck out her feet. Her shoes? Bad shape; and her stockings? They weren’t quite right. He didn’t see what was wrong exactly—unless it was that the other sides of the seams showed through—but still she was very attractive: her simplicity was engaging. Well-shaped shoes were after all a matter—a question of money.
“It’s funny you should be Mr. Maitland, isn’t it?” she said, digging her heels into the soft sand and looking up at him under her long, dark eyelashes.
“It would be far funnier if I was not—funnier to me, at all events.”
“Yes, of course: you are so amusing, aren’t you?”
“Am I? I don’t think so.” He was open to conviction.