She heard the sound of
wheels, the persistent "honk-honk" of motor cars, and, in the playhouse,
the crash of cymbals and drums. Somewhere in the happy crowd were
Allison and Isabel, while she sat in silence at home.
Madame Francesca stirred in her chair. "I've been asleep, I think."
"You're not going to wait until they come home, are you?"
"Why should I? Isabel has a key."
Rose remembered how Aunt Francesca had invariably waited for her, when
some gallant cavalier had escorted her to opera or play, and was
foolishly glad, for no discoverable reason.
"I was dreaming," Madame went on, drowsily, "of the little house where
Love lived."
"Where was it?" asked Rose gently.
"You know. I've told you of the little house in the woods where I went
as a bride, when I was no older than Isabel. When we turned the key and
went away, we must have left some of our love there. I've never been
back, but I like to think that some of the old-time sweetness is still
in the house, shut away like a jewel of great price, safe from meddling
hands."
Only once before, in the fifteen years they had lived together, had
Madame Bernard spoken of her brief marriage, yet Rose knew, by a
thousand little betrayals, that the past was not dead, but vitally
alive.
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