"
"What else?" she smiled.
"Well, I had a note from you the other day. It was fragrant with rose
petals and the conventionalised rose, in gold and white, that was
stamped in place of a monogram, didn't escape me. Besides, here's this."
He took from his pocket a handkerchief of sheerest linen, delicately
hemstitched. In one corner was embroidered a rose, in palest shades of
pink and green. The delicate, elusive scent filled the room as he shook
it out.
"There," he continued, with a laugh. "I found it in my violin case the
other day. I don't know how it came there, but it was much the same as
finding a rose twined about the strings."
Aunt Francesca was on the other side of the room, by the fire. Her face,
in the firelight, was as delicate as a bit of carved ivory. Her thoughts
were far away--one could see that. Isabel sat near her, apparently
absorbed in a book, but, in reality, listening to every word.
"I wish," Allison was saying, "that people knew how to live up to
themselves. That's an awkward phrase, but I don't know of anything
better. Even their names don't fit 'em, and they get nicknames.
Pages:
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91