she had bewitched so many others. She had never met a man she could not
conquer. She was determined to conquer him. Was it wrong? Anyway, it was
human. She danced till her very heart was on fire, danced till she trod
the clouds. Her audience went mad with the delight of it. They raved as
if they were intoxicated. All but one man! All but one man! And he--at
the end--he looked her just once in the eyes, stonily, piercingly, and
went away." She uttered a sharp, choking breath. "I have nearly done,"
she said. "Can you guess what happened then? Perhaps you know. The man
who loved her received her letter when he got back that night.
And--and--she had bewitched him, remember; he--shot himself. The
friend--the writer--she never saw again. But--but--Rosa Mundi has never
forgotten him. She carries him in her heart--the man who taught her the
meaning of life."

She ceased to speak, and suddenly, like a boy, sprang to her feet,
tossing away the stone that she had treasured in her hand.

But the man was almost as quick as she. He caught her by the shoulder as
he rose. "Wait!" he said. "Wait!" His voice rang hard, but there was no
hardness in his eyes. "Tell me--who you are!"

She lifted her eyes to his fearlessly, without shame. "What does it
matter who I am?" she said. "What does it matter? I have told you I am
Rosemary. That is her name for me, and it was your book called
_Remembrance_ that made her give it me."

He held her still, looking at her with a growing compassion in his
eyes. "You are her child," he said.

She smiled. "Perhaps--spiritually. Yes, I think I am her child, such a