"I owe you everything," he went on; "even
Isabel."
He kissed her, then, laughing, turned to Rose. "May I?" he asked.
Without waiting for an answer, he turned her face to his, and kissed her
on the lips.
Cold as ice and shaken to the depths of her soul, Rose stumbled out of
the room, murmuring brokenly of a forgotten letter which must be
immediately written. Madame lingered for the space of half an hour,
talking brightly of everything under the sun, then followed Rose,
turning in the doorway as she went out, to say: "Can't you even thank me
for leaving you alone?"
"Bless her," said Allison, fondly. "What sweet women they are!"
"Yes," answered Isabel, spitefully, "especially Rose."
He laughed heartily. "What a little goose you are, sweetheart. Kiss me,
dear--dearest."
"I won't," she flashed back, stubbornly, nor would she, until at last,
by superior strength, he took his lover's privilege from lips that
refused to yield.
That night he dreamed that, for a single exquisite instant, Isabel had
answered him, giving him love for love. Then, strangely enough, Isabel
became Rose, in a gown of gold, with golden roses twined in her hair.
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