the attraction, and with firmness he resisted it. Let her strive as she
would, she would never persuade him to think kindly of Rosa Mundi.

"You think her--bad," said Rosemary, her voice pitched very low. "I
know--oh, I know. Men--some men--are very hard on women like her, women
who have had to hew their own way in the world, and meet temptation
almost before"--her voice quivered a little--"they knew what temptation
meant."

He looked down at her again suddenly and searchingly; but her clear eyes
never flinched from his. They were pleading and a little troubled, but
wholly unafraid.

"Perhaps you won't believe me," she said. "You'll think you know best.
But Rosa Mundi wasn't bad always--not at the beginning. Her dancing
began when she was young--oh, younger than I am. It was a dreadful
uphill fight. She had a mother then--a mother she adored. Did you ever
have a mother like that, I wonder? Perhaps it isn't the same with men,
but there are some women who would gladly die for their mothers.
And--and Rosa Mundi felt like that. A time came when her mother was
dying of a slow disease, and she needed things--many things. Rosa Mundi
wasn't a success then. She hadn't had her chance. But there was a man--a
man with money and influence--who was willing to offer it to
her--at--at--a price. She was dancing for chance coppers outside a San
Francisco saloon when first he made his offer. She--refused."

Rosemary's soft eyes were suddenly lowered. She did not look like a
child any longer, but a being sexless, yet very pitiful--an angel about
to weep.