Rose had no idea of tantalization, or she would have held him a while in doubt; she answered briefly:

‘I can’t; I don’t know her name.’

‘Describe her to me. What was she like? Where did you see her?’

‘When Jessy and I went to spend the day at Whinbury with Kate and Susan Pearson, who were just come home from school, there was a party at Mrs. Pearson’s, and some grown-up ladies were sitting in a corner of the drawing-room talking about you.’

‘Did you know none of them?’

‘Hannah and Harriet, and Dora and Mary Sykes.’

‘Good. Were they abusing me, Rosy?’

‘Some of them were: they called you a misanthrope. I remember the word; I looked for it in the dictionary when I came home. It means a man-hater.’

‘What besides?’

‘Hannah Sykes said you were a solemn puppy.’

‘Better!’ cried Mr. Yorke, laughing. ‘Oh, excellent! Hannah, that’s the one with the red hair—a fine girl, but half-witted.’

‘She has wit enough for me, it appears,’ said Moore. ‘A solemn puppy, indeed! Well, Rose, go on.’

‘Miss Pearson said she believed there was a good deal of affectation about you, and that with your dark hair and pale face you looked to her like some sort of a sentimental noodle.’

Again Mr. Yorke laughed; Mrs. Yorke even joined in this time.

‘You see in what esteem you are held behind your back,’ said she; ‘yet I believe that Miss Pearson would like to catch you; she set her cap at you when you first came into the country, old as she is.’

‘And who contradicted her, Rosy?’ inquired Moore.

‘A lady whom I don’t know, because she never visits here, though I see her every Sunday at church; she sits in the pew near the pulpit. I generally look at her instead of looking at my Prayer-Book; for she is like a picture in our dining-room, that woman with the dove in her hand—at least, she has eyes like it, and a nose too—a straight nose—that makes all her face look, somehow, what I call clear.’

‘And you don’t know her!’ exclaimed Jessy, in a tone of exceeding surprise. ‘That’s so like Rose. Mr. Moore, I often wonder in what sort of a world my sister lives; I am sure she does not live all her time in this. One is continually finding out that she is quite ignorant of some little matter which everybody else knows. To think of her going solemnly to church every Sunday, and looking all service-time at one particular person, and never so much as asking that person’s name. She means Caroline Helstone, the Rector’s niece; I remember all about it. Miss Helstone was quite angry with Anne Pearson; she said; “Robert Moore is neither affected nor sentimental; you mistake his character utterly, or rather, not one of you here knows anything about it.” Now, shall I tell you what she is like? I can tell what people are like and how they are dressed better than Rose can.’

‘Let us hear.’