'Precisely. That is just what I mean,' said Mr. Whiston with
self-satisfaction. 'My dear Rose, if I had been alone, I might perhaps have
talked a little, but with you it was impossible. One cannot be too careful.
A man like that will take all sorts of liberties. One has to keep such
people at a distance.

A moment's pause, then Rose spoke with unusual decision--

'I feel quite sure, father, that he would not have taken liberties. It
seems to me that he knew quite well how to behave himself.'

Mr. Whiston grew still more puzzled. He closed his book to meditate this
new problem.

'One has to lay down rules,' fell from him at length, sententiously. 'Our
position, Rose, as I have often explained, is a delicate one. A lady in
circumstances such as yours cannot exercise too much caution. Your natural
associates are in the world of wealth; unhappily, I cannot make you
wealthy. We have to guard our self-respect, my dear child. Really, it is
not _safe_ to talk with strangers--least of all at an inn. And you have
only to remember that disgusting conversation about beer!'

Rose said no more. Her father pondered a little, felt that he had delivered
his soul, and resumed the book.

The next morning they were early at the station to secure good places for
the long journey to London. Up to almost the last moment it seemed that
they would have a carriage to themselves. Then the door suddenly opened, a
bag was flung on to the seat, and after it came a hot, panting man, a