everything to be natural and pleasant." He passed his hand over his eyes again, and as if at the same time recognising that his tone required explanation, "It's just because Julia's so down, don't you see?" he subjoined. "A fellow can't stand it."
Mrs. Beever spoke after a pause during which her companion roamed rather jerkily about. "It's a mere accidental fluctuation. You may trust Ramage to know."
"Yes, thank God, I may trust Ramage to know!" He had the accent of a man constitutionally accessible to suggestion, and could turn the next instant to a quarter more cheering. "Do you happen to have an idea of what has become of Rose?"
Again Mrs. Beever, making a fresh observation, waited a little before answering. "Do you now call her 'Rose'?"
"Dear, yes—talking with Julia. And with her," he went on as if he couldn't quite remember—"do I too? Yes," he recollected, "I think I must."
"What one must one must," said Mrs. Beever
