me if he's not with me."

Prothero admitted that it might be likely.

"It's not," she said, "as if I was afraid of 'is taking up with another
woman--serious."

(They wondered had she heard?)

"I can trust him with Mrs. Brodrick."

(They thought it strange that she should not consider Mrs. Brodrick
serious. They said nothing, and in a moment Rose explained.)

"She's like all these writin' people. _I_ know 'em."

"Yes," said Prothero. "We're a poor lot, aren't we?"

(It was a mercy that she didn't take it seriously.)

"Oh you--you're different."

She had always had a very clear perception of his freedom from the
literary taint.

"But Mrs. Brodrick now--she doesn't care for 'im. She's not likely to.
She'll never care for anybody but herself."

"What makes you think so?"

"Well--a woman who could walk off like that and leave 'er little
children--to say nothing of 'er husband----"

"Isn't it," said Prothero, "what you're proposing to do yourself?"

"I 'aven't got any little children. She's leavin' 'er 'usband to get
away from' im, to please 'erself. I'm leavin' mine to bring 'im to me."

She paused, pensive.

"Oh, no, I'm not afraid of Mrs. Brodrick. She 'asn't got a 'eart."

"No?"

"Not wot _I_ should call a 'eart."

"Perhaps not," said Laura.

"I used to hate her when she came about the place. Leastways I tried to
hate her, and I couldn't."

She meditated in their silence.

"If it's got to be anybody it'd best be 'er. She's given 'im all she's
got to give, and he sees 'ow much it is. 'E goes to 'er, I know, and
'e'll keep on going; and she--she'll 'old 'im orf and on--I can see 'er
doin' of it, and I don't care. As long as she 'olds' im she keeps other
women orf of 'im."

Their silence marvelled at her.

"Time and again I've cried my eyes out, and _that_'s no good. I've got,"
said Rose, "to look at it sensible. She's really keepin' 'im for me."

Down-stairs, alone with Laura, she revealed herself more fully.

"I dare say 'e won't ever ask me to come back," she said. "But once I've
gone out of the house for good and all, 'e'll come to me now and again.
He's bound to. You see, _she_'s no good to him. And maybe, if I was to
'ave a child--I might----"

She sighed, but in her eyes there kindled a dim hope, shining through
tears.

"Wot I shall miss is--workin' for 'im."

Her mouth trembled. Her tears fell.

LXVI

Between seven and eight o'clock on Tuesday evening, Tanqueray, in