'A pity!' exclaimed Mr. Whiston (that was his respectable name) as they
strolled away. 'It looked at first as if we should have such a nice quiet
dinner.'

'I enjoyed it all the same,' replied his companion, whose name was Rose.

'That abominable habit of drinking!' added Mr. Whiston austerely. He
himself had quaffed water, as always. 'Their ale, indeed! See the coarse,
gross creatures it produces!'

He shuddered. Rose, however, seemed less consentient than usual. Her eyes
were on the ground; her lips were closed with a certain firmness. When she
spoke, it was on quite another subject.

They were Londoners. Mr. Whiston held the position of draughtsman in the
office of a geographical publisher; though his income was small, he had
always practised a rigid economy, and the possession of a modest private
capital put him beyond fear of reverses. Profoundly conscious of social
limits, he felt it a subject for gratitude that there was nothing to be
ashamed of in his calling, which he might fairly regard as a profession,
and he nursed this sense of respectability as much on his daughter's behalf
as on his own. Rose was an only child; her mother had been dead for years;
her kinsfolk on both sides laid claim to the title of gentlefolk, but
supported it on the narrowest margin of independence. The girl had grown up
in an atmosphere unfavourable to mental development, but she had received a
fairly good education, and nature had dowered her with intelligence. A
sense of her father's conscientiousness and of his true affection forbade
her to criticise openly the principles on which he had directed her life;
hence a habit of solitary meditation, which half fostered, yet half
opposed, the gentle diffidence of Rose's character.