I thank you now for the signal--and for saving me."
She watched him as he went down the road, tall, erect, and soldierly, in
spite of his three-score and ten. "Three of us," she said to herself,
"all in white gloves." The metaphor appealed to her strongly.
She did not go in until Isabel appeared in the doorway, list in hand,
and prettily perplexed over the problem of clothes. Madame slipped it
into the chatelaine bag that hung from her belt. "We'll go over it with
Rose," she said. "She knows more about clothes than I do."
"Have you told Cousin Rose?"
"No," answered Madame, avoiding the girl's eyes. "It's your place to
tell her--not mine."
When Rose came down to dinner that night, she was gorgeously attired in
her gown of old-gold satin, adorned with gold lace. The last yellow
roses of the garden were twined in her dark hair, and the rouge-stick,
that faithful friend of unhappy woman, had given a little needed colour
to her cheeks and lips, for the first time in her life.
"Cousin Rose," began Isabel, a little abashed by the older woman's
magnificence, "I'm engaged--to Allison.
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