At the lodgings she sat down in her
bedroom, and gazed through the open window at the sea. A sense of
discouragement, hitherto almost unknown, had fallen upon her; it spoilt the
blue sky and the soft horizon. She thought rather drearily of the townward
journey to-morrow, of her home in the suburbs, of the endless monotony that
awaited her. The flowers lay on her lap; she smelt them, dreamed over them.
And then--strange incongruity--she thought of beer!
Between tea and supper she and her father rested on the beach. Mr. Whiston
was reading. Rose pretended to turn the leaves of a book. Of a sudden, as
unexpectedly to herself as to her companion, she broke silence.
'Don't you think, father, that we are too much afraid of talking with
strangers?'
'Too much afraid?'
Mr. Whiston was puzzled. He had forgotten all about the incident at the
dinner-table.
'I mean--what harm is there in having a little conversation when one is
away from home? At the inn to-day, you know, I can't help thinking we were
rather--perhaps a little too silent.'
'My dear Rose, did you want to talk about beer?'
She reddened, but answered all the more emphatically.
'Of course not. But, when the first gentleman came in, wouldn't it have
been natural to exchange a few friendly words? I'm sure he wouldn't have
talked of beer to _us_'
'The _gentleman_? I saw no gentleman, my dear.
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