Rose sighed a little, but not audibly.
"This morning, again, when we were walking to church, what does he do, do you think, but join me?--which, after the setting down I had given him last night, was really more than a girl could be expected to stand."
Rose looked interested now and softened. "And? Well?" she said.
"Well, I just treated him as he deserved; would have nothing to do with him; got round to the other side of my escort, and ignored him altogether."
Rose's sigh was audible this time.
"But you need not pity him, Rose, dear; or not much, at any rate. He is not inconsolable; and, what is better, he has a consoler. And such a one! You could not imagine an odder belle for the dashing Bertie Roe we can remember. He is no longer hypercritical as to good looks, I can tell you."
"Who is it?"
"Whom would you suppose? You know the washed-out little Yankee schoolma'am with the blue goggles? That's her!"
"You must be mistaken."
"So I was sure myself, at first. But no. I came home from church in the omnibus, and an old thing sat opposite me, who takes a most motherly interest in the pair--a friend of the schoolma'am. You should have heard her talk about them! It was just too altogether rich and comical. She says the sweet young things have been faithfully attached for the last ten years. To think of Bertie's constancy, you know! And they are going to be married. And in the meantime they spend their time gathering shells and grubbing in the sand together, for she mentioned their having little spades."