"I took her to a 'musical comedy' once, in a frivolous moment,"

explained Rose, "and she's never forgiven me."

"Why remind me of it?" questioned Madame. "I've been endeavouring for years to forget it."

Isabel's eyes wandered anxiously to the clock. She had a strong impulse to go to the window again, but remembered that Madame would not approve.

Presently there was the sound of wheels outside, and Allison, very handsome in his evening clothes, came in with an apology for his tardiness. After greeting Madame Bernard and Rose, he bowed to Isabel, with a mock deference which, none the less, contained subtle flattery.

"Silver Girl," he said, "you do me too much honour. I'm not at all sure that one escort is sufficient for so much loveliness."

Isabel smiled, then dimpled irresistibly. She had a secret sense of triumph which she did not stop to a.n.a.lyse.

"Come," he said. "In the words of the poet, 'the carriage waits.'"

They said good-night to the others, and went out. There was silence in the room until the sound of wheels had quite died away, then Rose sighed. With a swift pang, she envied Isabel's glorious youth, then the blood retreated from her heart in shame.

Madame sighed too, but for a different reason. "I suppose I shouldn't say it," she remarked, "but it's a relief to have that dear child out of the house for a little while."

"It's kind of Allison to take her," Rose answered, trying not to wish that she might change places with Isabel.

"Very kind. The Kents are singularly decent about everything. I suppose it was Allison who managed to have Romeo Crosby call upon her the other evening."

"I hardly think so. You remember that Allison hadn't seen him since he grew up."

"Shot up, you mean. How rapidly weeds grow!"

"Are the twins weeds?"

"I think so. Still, they're a wholesome and stimulating sort, even though they have done just as they pleased."

The fire died down into embers. The stillness would have been unbearable had it not been for the steady ticking of the clock. Madame leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Rose tried to read, but could not concentrate her mind upon the page.

Her thoughts were far away, with the two who had so recently left the house. In fancy she saw the brilliantly lighted streets, the throng of pleasure seekers and pretty women in gay attire. She heard the sound of wheels, the persistent "honk-honk" of motor cars, and, in the playhouse, the crash of cymbals and drums. Somewhere in the happy crowd were Allison and Isabel, while she sat in silence at home.

Madame Francesca stirred in her chair. "I've been asleep, I think."

"You're not going to wait until they come home, are you?"

"Why should I? Isabel has a key."

Rose remembered how Aunt Francesca had invariably waited for her, when some gallant cavalier had escorted her to opera or play, and was foolishly glad, for no discoverable reason.

"I was dreaming," Madame went on, drowsily, "of the little house where Love lived."

"Where was it?" asked Rose gently.

"You know. I've told you of the little house in the woods where I went as a bride, when I was no older than Isabel. When we turned the key and went away, we must have left some of our love there. I've never been back, but I like to think that some of the old-time sweetness is still in the house, shut away like a jewel of great price, safe from meddling hands."

Only once before, in the fifteen years they had lived together, had Madame Bernard spoken of her brief marriage, yet Rose knew, by a thousand little betrayals, that the past was not dead, but vitally alive.

"I can bear it," said Madame, half to herself, "because I have been his wife. If he had been taken away before we were married, I should have gone, too. But now I have only to wait until G.o.d brings us together again."

Outwardly, Rose was calm and unperturbed; inwardly, tense and unstrung.

She wondered if, at last, the sorrow had been healed enough for speech.

Upstairs there was a room that was always locked. No one but Aunt Francesca ever entered it, and she but rarely. Once or twice, Rose had chanced to see her coming through the open door, transfigured by some spiritual exaltation too great for words. For days afterward there was about her a certain uplift of soul, fading gradually into her usual serenity.

Mr. Boffin stalked in, jumped into Madame's lap, and began to purr industriously. She laughed as she stroked his tawny head and the purr increased rapidly in speed and volume.

"Don't let him burst himself," cautioned Rose, welcoming the change of mood. "I never knew a cat to purr so--well, so thoroughly, did you?"

"He's lost his hold of the brake," Madame answered. "Are you going to wait until Isabel comes home?"

"Of course not."

"Then let's go up and read for a little while."

Rose waited until Madame was half way up the long flight before she turned down the lights and followed her. It made a pretty picture--the little white-haired lady in grey on the long stairway, with the yellow cat upon her shoulder, looking back with the inscrutable calmness of the Sphinx.

Rose felt that, for herself, sleep would be impossible until Isabel returned. She hoped that Aunt Francesca would not want her to read aloud, but, as it chanced, she did. However, the chosen book was of the sort which banishes insomnia, and, in less than an hour, Madame was sound asleep, with Mr. Boffin purring in his luxurious silk-lined basket at the foot of her bed.

Alone in her own room, Rose waited, frankly jealous of her young cousin and fiercely despising herself for it. She recalled the happy hours she and Allison had spent with their music and berated herself bitterly for her selfishness, but to no avail. As the hours dragged by, every moment seemed an eternity. Worn by her unaccustomed struggle with self, she finally slept.

Meanwhile, Isabel was the gayest of the gay. The glittering lights of the playhouse formed a fitting background for her, and Allison watched her beautiful, changing face with an ever-increasing sense of delight.

The play itself was an old story to him, but the girl was a new sensation, and while she watched the mimic world beyond the footlights, he watched her.

The curtain of the first act descended upon a woman, waiting at the window for a man who did not come, and, most happily, Isabel remembered the conversation at home in the earlier part of the evening.

"Foolish woman," she said, "to wait at the window."

"Why?" asked Allison, secretly amused.

"I wouldn't wait at the window for an unmarried man, nor for a married man, either, unless he was my own husband."

"Why?" he asked, again.

"Because men keep best in a cool dry atmosphere. Didn't you know that?"

"How did you happen to discover it, Sweet-and-Twenty?"

Isabel answered with a smile, which meant much or little, as one chose.

Presently she remembered something else that happened to be useful.

"Look," she said, indicating a man in the front seat who had fallen asleep. "He's taking his pleasure sadly."

"Perhaps he's happier to be asleep. He may not care for the play."

"Somebody once said," she went on hastily, seeing that she was making a good impression, "that life would be very endurable were it not for its pleasures."