"No, sir, I couldn't," she reiterated.
But when he pressed them on her she began to cry.
And that left him wondering more.
IV
On the fourteenth day, Tanqueray, completely recovered, went out for a walk. And the first thing he did when he got back was to look at his note-book to see what day of the month it was.
It was the tenth, the tenth of June, the day of the Dog Show. And the memorandum stared him in the face: "Rose Show. Remember to take a holiday."
He looked in the paper. The show began at ten. And here he was at half-past one. And here was Rose, in her old green and brown, bringing in his luncheon.
"Rose," he said severely, "why are you not at the Rose Show?"
Rose lowered her eyes. "I didn't want to go, sir."
"How about the new gown?"
(He remembered it.)
"That don't matter. Aunt's gone instead of me."
"Wearing it? She couldn't. Get into it at once, and leave that confounded cloth alone and go. You've plenty of time."
She repeated that she did not want to go, and went on laying the cloth.
"Why not?" said he.
"I don't want to leave you, sir."
"Do you mean to say you've given up that Dog Show—with Joey in it—for me?"
"Joey isn't in it; and I'd rather be here looking after you."
"I won't be looked after. I insist on your going. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir, I hear you."
"And you're going?"
"No, sir." She meditated with her head a little on one side; a way she had. "I've got a headache, and—and—and I don't want to go and see them other dogs, sir."
"Oh, that's it, is it? A feeling for Joey?"
But by the turn of head he knew it wasn't. Rose was lying, the little minx.
"But you must go somewhere. You shall go somewhere. You shall go—I say, supposing you go for a drive with me?"
"You mustn't take me for drives, sir."
"Mustn't I?"
"I don't want you to give me drives—or—or anything."
"I see. You are to do all sorts of things for me, and I'm not to be allowed to do anything for you."
She placed his chair for him in silence, and as he seated himself he looked up into her face.
"Do you want to please me, Rose?"
Her face was firm as she looked at him. It was as if she held him in check by the indomitable set of her chin, and the steady light of her eyes. (Where should he be if Rose were to let herself go?)
Her mouth trembled, it protested against these austerities and decisions. It told him dumbly that she did want, very much, to please him; but that she knew her place.
Did she? Did she indeed know her place? Did he know it?
"You're right, Rose. That isn't the way I ought to have put it. Will you do me the honour of going for a drive with me?"
She looked down, troubled and uncertain.
"It can be done, Rose," he said, answering her thoughts. "It can be done. The only thing is, would you like it?"
"Yes, sir, I would like it very much."
"Can you be ready by three o'clock?"
At three she was ready.
She wore the lilac gown she had bought for the Show, and the hat. It had red roses in it.
He did not like her gown. It was trimmed with coarse lace, and he could not bear to see her in anything that was not fine.
"Is anything wrong with my hair?" said Rose.
"No, nothing's wrong with your hair, but I think I like you better in the green and brown——"
"That's only for every day."
"Then I shall like you better every day."
"Why do you like my green and brown dress?"
He looked at her again and suddenly he knew why.
"Because you had it on when I first saw you. I say, would you mind awfully putting it on instead of that thing?"
She did mind, awfully; but she went and put it on. And still there was something wrong with her. It was her hat. It did not go with the green and brown. But he felt that he would be a brute to ask her to take that off, too.
They drove to Hendon and back. They had tea at "Jack Straw's Castle." (Rose's face surrendered to that ecstasy.) And then they strolled over the West Heath and found a hollow where Rose sat down under a birch-tree and Tanqueray stretched himself at her feet.
"Rose," he said suddenly, "do you know what a wood-nymph is?"
"Well," said Rose, "I suppose it's some sort of a little animal."
"Yes, it's a little animal. A delightful little animal."
"Can you catch it and stroke it?"
"No. If you tried it would run away. Besides, you're not allowed to catch it, or to stroke it. The wood-nymph is very strictly preserved."
Rose smiled; for though she did not know what a wood-nymph was, she knew that Mr. Tanqueray was looking at her all the time.
"The wood-nymphs always dress in green and brown."
"Like me?"
"Like you. Only they don't wear boots" (Rose hid her boots), "nor yet collars."
"You wouldn't like to see me without a collar."
"I'd like to see you without that hat."
Any difficulty in taking Rose about with him would lie in Rose's hat. He could not say what was wrong with it except that the roses in it were too red and gay for Rose's gravity.
"Would you mind taking it off?"
She took it off and put it in her lap. Surrendered as she was, she could not disobey. The eternal spell was on her.
Tanqueray removed her hat gently and hid it behind him. He laid his hands in her lap. It was deep delight to touch her. She covered his hands with hers. That was all he asked of her and all she thought of giving.
On all occasions which she was prepared for, Rose was the soul of propriety and reserve. But this, the great occasion, had come upon her unaware, and Nature had her will of her. Through Rose she sent out the sign and signal that he waited for. And Rose became the vehicle of that love which Nature fosters and protects; it was visible and tangible, in her eyes, and in her rosy face and in the naïf movements of her hands.
Sudden and swift and fierce his passion came upon him, but he only lay there at her feet, holding her hands, and gazing into her face, dumb, like any lover of her class.
Then Rose lifted her hands from his and spoke.
"What have you done with my hat?"
In that moment he had turned and sat on it.
Deliberately, yet impulsively, and without a twinge of remorse, he had sat on it. But not so