Rosemary | Page 2

and
not to have come from any bottle, or bag of sachet powder. A sweet,
fresh, indefinable fragrance, like the smell of a tea rose after rain.
They would have walked together, they two, and he would have been
so proud of her, that every time a passer-by cast a glance of admiration
at her face, he would feel that he could hardly keep in a laugh of joy, or
a shout, "She is mine--she is mine."
But he had been poor in the old days, when from far away he had
thought of this terrace, and the moon of honey and roses, and love. It
had all been a dream, then, as it was now; too sweet ever to come true.
He thought of the dream, and of the boy who had dreamed it, half
bitterly, half sadly, on this his first day in the place of the dream.
He was rich--as rich as he had seen himself in the impossible picture,
and it would have been almost too easy to buy the white dress, and the
ermine, and the pearls. But there was no one for whom he would have
been happy to buy them. The most beautiful girl in the world was not in
his world now; and none other had had the password to open the door
of his heart since she had gone out, locking it behind her.
"She would have liked the auto," he said to himself. And then, a
moment later, "I wonder why I came?"
It was a perfect Riviera day. Everybody in Monte Carlo who was not in
the Casino was sauntering on the terrace in the sun; for it was that hour
before luncheon when people like to say, "How do you do?--How nice
to meet you here!" to their friends.

The young man from far away had not, so far as he knew, either
enemies or friends at Monte Carlo. He was not conscious of the
slightest desire to say "How do you do?" to any of the pretty people he
met, although there is a superstition that every soul longs for kindred
souls at Christmas time.
He had not been actively unhappy before he left the Hotel de Paris and
strolled out on the terrace, to have his first sight of Monte Carlo by
daylight. Always, there was the sore spot in his heart, and often it ached
almost unbearably at night, or when the world hurt him with its beauty,
which he must see without Her; but usually he kept the spot well
covered up; and being healthy as well as young, he had cultivated that
kind of contentment which Thoreau said was only desperate resignation
in disguise. He took an interest in books, in politics, and sport and
motor cars, and a good many other things; but on the terrace, the blue
of the sea; the opal lights on the mountains; the gold glint of oranges
among green, glittering leaves; the pearly glimmer of white roses
thrown up like a spray against the sky, struck at his heart, and made the
ache come back more sharply than it had for a long time.
If he had been a girl, tears would have blinded his eyes; but being what
he was, he merely muttered in anger against himself, "Hang it all, what
a wretched ass I am," and turning his back on the sea, made his way as
fast as he could into the Casino.
It was close upon twelve o'clock, and the "Rooms" had been open to
the public for two hours. The "early gamblers" thronging the Atrium to
wait till the doors opened, had run in and snatched seats for themselves
at the first tables, or marked places to begin at eleven o'clock, if
crowded away from the first. Later, less ardent enthusiasts had strolled
in; and now, though it was not by any means the "high season" yet,
there were rows of players or lookers on, three deep round each table.
The young man was from the South--though a South very different
from this. He had the warm blood of Virginia in his veins, and just so
much of the gambler's spirit as cannot be divided from a certain
recklessness in a man with a temperament. He had seen plenty of life in
his own country, in the nine years since he was twenty, and he knew all

about roulette and trente et quarante, among other things desirable and
undesirable.
Still, gambling seemed to be made particularly fascinating here, and he
wanted to be fascinated, wanted it badly. He was in the mood for the
heavy hush of the Rooms, for the closeness, and the rich perfumes,
which mingling together seem like the smell of money piled on the
green tables; he was in a mood