Only Rose was serene. Fortunately, no one guessed the tumult that lay
beneath her outward calm. Her manner toward Allison was, if anything,
more impersonal than ever, though she failed in no thoughtful kindness,
no possible consideration. He accepted it all as a matter of course, but
began to wish, vaguely, for something more.
He forebore to remind her of their strange relation, and could not
allude to the night he had kissed her, while his fiancee stood near by.
Yet, late one afternoon, when she had excused herself a little earlier
than usual, he called her back.
"Rose?"
"Yes?" She returned quickly and stood before him, just out of his reach.
"What is it? What can I do for you?"
The tone was kind but impersonal, as always. "Nothing," he sighed,
turning his face away.
That night she pondered long. What could Allison want that she had not
given? The blood surged into her heart for an instant, then retreated.
"Nonsense," she said to herself in tremulous anger. "It's impossible!"
Afterward it seemed continually to happen that she was alone with
Allison when the time came to say good-night and drive home, or walk,
escorted by Colonel Kent or the Doctor.
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