Rosemary | Page 8

must have known, she is capable of becoming a
noble woman. Perhaps, if she turns out to be really as sweet and gentle
as she seems--"
The sentence broke off unfinished, in his mind, and ended with a great
sigh.
There could be only second best, and third best things in life for him
now, since love was over, and it would be impossible for him to care

for an angel from heaven, who had not the face and the dear ways of
the girl he had lost. But second best things might be better than no good
things at all, if only one made up one's mind to accept them thankfully.
And it was a shame to waste so much money on himself, when there
were soft-eyed, innocent girls in the world who ought to be sheltered
and protected from harm.

[Illustration: CHAPTER THREE]
WHEN THE CURTAIN WAS DOWN
[Illustration: T]
The soft-eyed, innocent girl who had inspired the thought went into the
hotel, and was rather cross to the youthful concierge, because the
ascenseur was not working. There were three flights of stairs to mount
before she reached her room, and she was so anxious to open her bag to
see what was inside, that she ran up very fast, so fast that she stepped
on her dress and ripped out a long line of gathers. Her eyes were not
nearly as soft as they had been, while she picked up the hanging folds
of pink cloth, and went on.
The narrow corridor at the top of the staircase was somewhat dark, and,
her eyes accustomed to the brilliant light out of doors, the girl stumbled
against a child who was coming towards her.
"Petit bête!" she snapped. "You have all but made me fall. Awkward
little thing, why don't you keep out of people's way?"
The child flushed. She would have liked to answer that it was
Mademoiselle who had got in her way; but Mother wished her to be
always polite. "I am sorry," she replied instead, not saying a word about
the poor little toes which the pretty pink lady had crushed.
"Well, then, if you are sorry, why don't you let me pass?" asked the girl
of the soft eyes.

"If you please, I want to give you a note," said the child, anxiously
searching a small pocket. "It's from Mother, for Madame. She told me
to take it to your door; so I did, several times, but nobody answered.
Here 'tis, please, Mademoiselle."
Mademoiselle snatched it from the hand, which was very tiny, and pink,
with dimples where grown up folk have knuckles. She then pushed past
the child, and went on to a door at the end of the passage, which she
threw open, without knocking.
"Eh bien, Julie! You have been gone long enough to break the bank
twice over. What luck have you had?" exclaimed the husky voice of a
woman who sat in an easy chair beside a wood fire, telling her own
fortune with an old pack of cards, spread upon a sewing board, on her
capacious lap.
She was in a soiled dressing gown of purple flannel, with several of the
buttons off. In the clear light of a window at the woman's back, her hair,
with a groundwork of crimson, was overshot with iridescent lights. On
a small table at her side a tray had been left, with the remains of
déjeuner; a jug stained brown with streaks of coffee; a crumbled
crescent roll; some balls of silver paper which had contained cream
chocolates; ends of cigarettes, and a scattered grey film of ashes. At her
feet a toy black Pomeranian lay coiled on the torn bodice of a red dress;
and all the room was in disorder, with an indiscriminate litter of hats,
gloves, French novels, feather boas, slippers, and fallen blouses or
skirts.
The lady of the roses went to the mirror over the untidy mantel piece,
and looked at herself, as she answered. "No luck at roulette or trente.
But the best of luck outside."
"What, then?"
The girl began to hum, as she powdered her nose with a white glove,
lying in a powder box.
"You remember le beau brun?"

"The young man in Paris you made so many enquiries about at Ritz's?
Is he here?"
"He is. I've just had lunch with him. Oh, there are lots of things to tell.
He is a good boy."
"How, good? You told him we had had losses?"
"I painted a sad picture. He was most sympathetic."
"To what extent?"
"Chere maman! One would think we were vulgar adventuresses. We
are not. He respects me, this dear young man, and it is right that he
should. I deserve to be respected. You know the fable about