how he came to know my name; secondly, what reason I had given him for supposing that I desired to meet him again.  His answer to this was even more outrageous than the first offence.  He bluntly informed me that in order to discover my name and address he had followed us home that day from Paddington Station!  As if this was not bad enough, he went on to—­really, Rose, I feel I must apologise to you, but the fact is I seem to have no choice but to tell you what he said.  The fellow tells me, really, that he wants to know me only that he may come to know you!  My first idea was to go with this letter to the police.  I am not sure that I shan’t do so even yet; most certainly I shall if he writes again.  The man may be crazy—­he may be dangerous.  Who knows but he may come lurking about the house?  I felt obliged to warn you of this unpleasant possibility.’

Rose was stirring her tea; also she was smiling.  She continued to stir and to smile, without consciousness of either performance.

‘You make light of it?’ exclaimed her father solemnly.

‘O father, of course I am sorry you have had this annoyance.’

So little was there of manifest sorrow in the girl’s tone and countenance that Mr. Whiston gazed at her rather indignantly.  His pregnant pause gave birth to one of those admonitory axioms which had hitherto ruled his daughter’s life.

’My dear, I advise you never to trifle with questions of propriety.  Could there possibly be a better illustration of what I have so often said—­that in self-defence we are bound to keep strangers at a distance?’

‘Father’

Rose began firmly, but her voice failed.

‘You were going to say, Rose?’

She took her courage in both hands.

‘Will you allow me to see the letters?’

‘Certainly.  There can be no objection to that.’

He drew from his pocket the three envelopes, held them to his daughter.  With shaking hand Rose unfolded the first letter; it was written in clear commercial character, and was signed ‘Charles James Burroughs.’  When she had read all, the girl said quietly—­

‘Are you quite sure, father, that these letters are impertinent?’

Mr. Whiston stopped in the act of finger-combing his beard.

‘What doubt can there be of it?’

‘They seem to me,’ proceeded Rose nervously, ’to be very respectful and very honest.’

’My dear, you astound me!  Is it respectful to force one’s acquaintance upon an unwilling stranger?  I really don’t understand you.  Where is your sense of propriety, Rose?  A vulgar, noisy fellow, who talks of beer and tobacco—­a petty clerk!  And he has the audacity to write to me that he wants to—­to make friends with my daughter!  Respectful?  Honest?  Really!’

When Mr. Whiston became sufficiently agitated to lose his decorous gravity, he began to splutter, and at such moments he was not impressive.  Rose kept her eyes cast down.  She felt her strength once more, the strength of a wholly reasonable and half-passionate revolt against that tyrannous propriety which Mr. Whiston worshipped.