Francesca slipped out without speaking and went, unheard, to her own
room. She felt guilty because she had discerned something of which Rose
herself was as yet entirely unconscious. With the instinctive sex-
loyalty that distinguishes fine women from the other sort, Madame hoped
that Allison did not know.
"And so," she said to herself, "Love has come back to my house, after
many years of absence. I wonder if he cares? He must, oh, he must!"
Francesca had no selfish thought of her own loneliness, if her Rose
should go away. Though her own heart was forever in the keeping of a
distant grave, she could still be glad of another's joy.
Rose turned away from the piano and Allison put his violin into the
case. "It's late," he said, regretfully, "and you must be tired."
"Perhaps I am, but I don't know it."
"You respond so fully to the music that it is a great pleasure to play
with you. I wish I could always have you as my accompanist."
"I do, too," murmured Rose, turning her face away. The deep colour
mounted to the roots of her hair and he studied her impersonally, as he
would have studied any other lovely thing.
Pages:
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96