Rosa Mundi | Page 3

funny?"
"From her--yes," said Courteney.
"You don't like her?" The shrewd curiosity of a child who desires
understanding upon a forbidden subject was in the question.
The man evaded it. "I have never seen her except in the limelight."

"And you didn't like her--then?" Keen disappointment sounded in her
voice.
His heart smote him. The child was young, though possibly not so
young as she looked. She had her ideals, and they would be shattered
soon enough without any help from him.
With a brief laugh he turned aside, dismissing the subject. "That form
of entertainment doesn't appeal to me much," he said. "Now it's your
turn to tell me something. I have been wondering about the colour of
that sea. Would you call it blue--or purple?"
She looked, and again the mystery was in her face. For a moment she
did not speak. Then, "It is violet," she said--"the colour of Rosa
Mundi's eyes."
Ere the frown had died from his face she was gone, pattering lightly
over the sand, flitting like a day-dream into the blinding sunshine that
seemed to drop a veil behind her, leaving him to his thoughts.
* * * * *
Randal Courteney was an old and favoured guest at the Hurley Bay
Hotel. From his own particular corner of the great dining-room he was
accustomed to look out upon the world that came and went. Frequently
when he was there the place was almost deserted, and always he had
been treated as the visitor of most importance. But to-night, for the first
time, he found himself supplanted. Someone of more importance was
staying in the hotel, someone who had attracted crowds, whose
popularity amounted almost to idolatry.
The hotel was full, but Courteney, despite his far-reaching fame, was
almost entirely overlooked. News had spread that the wonderful
Australian dancer was to perform at the Pier Pavilion at the end of the
week, and the crowds had gathered to do her honour. They were going
to strew the Pier with roses on the night of her appearance, and they
were watching even now for the first sign of her with all the eager
curiosity that marks down any celebrity as fair prey. Courteney smiled

grimly to himself. How often it had been his lot to evade the
lion-hunters! It was an unspeakable relief to have the general attention
thus diverted from himself. Doubtless Rosa Mundi would revel in it. It
was her _rôle_ in life, the touchstone of her profession. Adulation was
the very air she breathed.
He wondered a little to find her seeking privacy, even for a few days.
Just a whim of hers, no doubt! Was she not ever a creature of whims?
And it would not last. He remembered how once young Eric Baron had
told him that she needed popularity as a flower needs the sun. His rose
of the world had not been created to bloom unseen. The boy had been
absurdly long-suffering, unbelievably blind. How bitter, how cruel, had
been his disillusion, Courteney could only guess. Had she ever cared,
ever regretted, he wondered? But no, he was sure she had not. She
would care for nothing until the bloom faded. Then, indeed, possibly,
remorse might come.
Someone passing his table paused and spoke--the managing director of
the Hurley Bay Theatre and of a score of others, a man he knew slightly,
older than himself. "The hive swarms in vain," he said. "The queen
refuses to emerge."
Courteney's expression was supremely cynical. "I was not aware that
she was of such a retiring disposition," he said.
The other man laughed. He was an American, Ellis Grant by name, a
man of gross proportions, but keen-eyed, iron-jawed, and successful.
"There is a rumour," he said, "that she is about to be married. Possibly
that might account for her shyness."
His look was critical. Courteney threw back his head almost with
defiance. "It doesn't interest me," he said curtly.
Ellis Grant laughed again and passed on. He valued his
acquaintanceship with the writer. He would not jeopardize it with
over-much familiarity. But he did not believe in the utter lack of
interest that he professed. No living man who knew her could be
wholly indifferent to the doings of Rosa Mundi. The fiery charm of her,

her passionate vitality, made that impossible.
Courteney finished his dinner and went out. The night was almost as
hot as the day had been. He turned his back on the Pier, that was
lighted from end to end, and walked away down the long parade.
He was beginning to wish himself out of the place. He had an absurd
feeling of being caught in some web of Fate that clung to him
tenaciously, strive as he would. Grant's laugh of careless incredulity
pursued him. There had