you."

This time Rose gave a little ghost of a sigh, and looked at him with
unutterable kindness. She was feeling that, after all, she had come
second in his consciousness--after Miss Dexter, whom she could not
like, but who had sat up all night with the kitchenmaid.

"Why about Miss Dexter? what can I have to do with her?" The tone was
almost contemptuous--not quite, Rose was too kind.

"Do you remember that I went to Florence?"

"Yes; I did not want you to go." There was at once a distinct note of
distress in her voice. It was horribly painful to her to have to think
of the things she tried so hard to bury away.

"No, but I went," he said very gently; "and it was useless, as I knew it
would be. But I want to tell you one thing which I have learnt, and
which I think you ought to know, as it may be inconvenient if you do
not. It is that Miss Dexter----" Rose interrupted him quickly.

"Is the daughter of the lady in Florence?" She gave a little hysterical
laugh. He looked at her in astonishment.

"And that is why she dislikes me so much. Do you know, Edmund, I had a
feeling from the moment I first saw her that there was something wrong
between us. It gave me a horrible feeling, and then I asked Mary
Groombridge about her, and she told me the poor girl's story; only she
said the mother lived in Paris. Of course Mary does not know, or she
would never have asked us here together. But that is how I knew what you