Rosemary | Page 4

like that. I wish I
could help you in some way." He spoke kindly, but not with absolute
warmth of sincerity. The girl saw this, and knew that he did not believe
in her as she wished him to believe, as she intended to make him
believe.
She looked up at him with sad and eloquent eyes, which softened his
heart in spite of himself. "You can't help me, thank you," she said,
"except by kind words and kind thoughts. I think, though, that it would
do me good to tell you things, if you really take an interest?"
"Of course I do." He was speaking the truth now. He was human, and
she was growing prettier, as she grew more pathetic, every moment.
"And would you advise me a little? I have nobody else to ask. My
mother and I know no one at Monte Carlo. Perhaps you would walk
with me on the terrace and let me talk?"
"Not on the terrace," he said, quickly, for he could not bear to meet the
sweet ghost of the past in the white dress and ermine stole, as he gave
advice to the flesh and blood reality of the present, in the pink frock
and roses. "What about Ciro's? Couldn't we find your mother
somewhere, and get her to chaperon us for lunch? I should think it must
be very jolly now, in the Galerie Charles Trois."
"So it would be; but my poor mother is very ill in her bed," said the

girl.
"Would she--er--do you think, as I'm an American, and we're almost
old friends, mind letting you have lunch just with me alone? Of course,
if she would mind, you must say no. But I must confess, I'm hungry as
a wolf; and it would be somewhere to sit and talk together, quietly, you
know."
"You are hungry," echoed the girl. "Ah, I would wager something that
you don't really know what hunger is. But I know--now."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean it is well my mother is ill, and doesn't wish to eat, for there
would be nothing for her, if she did."
"Good heavens! And you?"
"I have had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, and then only a
biscuit with a glass of water."
"My poor girl, we won't say anything more about chaperons. Come
along with me to Ciro's this instant, to lunch, and tell me everything."
He was completely won over now, and looked very handsome, with a
slight flush on his brown face, and his dark eyes bright with
excitement.
The girl lowered her long lashes, perhaps to hide tears.
When she did this, and drooped the corners of her mouth, she was very
engaging, and the young man tingled all over with pity. That poor,
pretty creature, starving, in her charming pink dress and hat of roses.
How strange life was! It was something to be thankful for that he had
met her.
A little while ago, he had walked through the Galerie Charles Trois,
thinking how delightful the tables looked at Ciro's, and making up his
mind to return there for lunch. But afterwards, on the terrace, he had

been so miserable that he would probably have forgotten all about his
plan, if it had not been for the girl.
Now, he chose a small table in a corner of the balcony, close to the
glass screen. A month later, he might have had to engage it long
beforehand; but to-day, though the place was well filled with pretty
women and their attendant men, there was not a crowd, and he could
listen to his companion's low-voiced confidences without fear of being
overheard.

[Illustration: CHAPTER TWO]
THE ROSE GIRL'S LITTLE STORY, AND GREAT EYES
[Illustration: H]
He ordered a lunch which he thought the girl would like, with wine to
revive the faculties that he knew must be failing. Then, when she had
eaten a little, daintily in spite of her hunger, he encouraged her to talk.
"Mother and I are all alone in the world," she said. "We are Belgian,
and live in Brussels, but we have drifted about a good deal, just
amusing ourselves. Somehow we never happened to come here until a
month ago. Then my mother said one day in Paris, 'Let us go to Monte
Carlo. I dreamed last night that I won twenty thousand francs there.'
My mother is rather superstitious. We came, and she did win, at first.
She was delighted, and believed in her dream, so much that when she
began to lose, she went up and up, doubling each time. They call the
game she made, 'playing the martingale!'
"She lost all the money we had with us, and telegraphed home for more.
Soon, she had sold out every one