Perhaps he had forgotten--Rose rather thought he had, but her self-
revelation stood before her always like a vivid, scarlet hour in a
procession of grey days. Yet the sting and shame of it were curiously
absent, for nothing could exceed the gentle courtesy and deference that
Allison instinctively accorded her. He saw her always as a thing apart;
a goddess who, through divine pity, had stooped for an instant to be a
woman--and had swiftly returned to her pedestal.
Sustained by the joy of service, Rose asked no more. Only to plan little
surprises for him, to anticipate every unspoken wish, to keep him cheery
and hopeful, to read or play to him without being asked--these things
were as the life-blood to her heart.
She had blossomed, too, into a new beauty. The forty years had put lines
of silver into her hair, but had been powerless to do more. Her lovely
face, where the colour came and went, the fleeting dimple at the corner
of her mouth and the crimson curve of her lips were eloquent with the
finer, more subtle charm of maturity. Her shining eyes literally
transfigured her.
Pages:
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315