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"Do you mean Father Robertson, of Holy Cross, Manxby Street, my lady?" "Of Holy Cross; yes, that's it." "He lives at " "Wait a moment. I'll take it down." She went to the writing-table and took up a pen. "Now, please!" "The Rev. George Robertson, Holy Cross Rectory, Manxby Street, my lady." "Thank you very much." "Can I do anything more for you, my lady?"
She answered, fixing three-thirty. Exactly at that time she arrived in Manxby Street and was shown into Father Robertson's study. Rosamund had changed, greatly changed, but in a subtle rather than a fiercely definite way. She had not aged as many women age when overtaken by sorrow. Her pale yellow hair was still bright.
Can we be certain that they are limited to this earth? Is it well with the child? I say we don't know. We dare not affirm that we know. He loved his father, didn't he?" Rosamund looked stricken. He let her go. He could not say any more to her. That evening Lady Ingleton called in Manxby Street and asked for Father Robertson. He happened to be in and received her at once.
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