"Yes. Have you forgotten you told me? That day, don't you remember, you
said you had loved another man who did not care for you?"
Rose nodded. Her face was like a crimson flower swaying on a slender
stem. "I said," she began, "that I had loved a man who did not care for
me, and that I always would. Wasn't that it?"
"Something like that. I wish to God I could change places with him."
"Did I," hesitated Rose, "are you sure--that I said--another man, or was
it just--a man?"
"Rose! What do you mean?"
Covered with lovely confusion, she stumbled over to the window, where
she might hide her burning face from him. "Don't you think," she asked,
unsteadily, "that it is beautiful here? This is Aunt Francesca's little
house, where she came when she was first married. She always calls it
'the little house where Love lived.'"
"And I came here," she went on, courageously, "because, in a house where
Love--had lived, I thought there might be some--for--"
Her voice trailed off into an indistinct murmur. "Rose," cried Allison,
"couldn't you give me just what I had before? Couldn't we go back, and
never mind the other man?"
"There's never any going back," she answered, in a whisper.
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