turned his own away.

There fell a silence between them, and through it the long, long roar of
the sea rose up--a mighty symphony of broken chords.

The man moved at last, looked down at the slight boyish figure beside
him, hesitated, finally spoke. "I still think that I should like to meet
Rosa Mundi," he said.

Her eyes smiled again. "And you will not despise her now," she said, her
tone no longer a question.

"I think," said Randal Courteney slowly, "that I shall never despise any
one again."

"Life is so difficult," said Rosemary, with the air of one who knew.

* * * * *

They were strewing the Pier with roses for Rosa Mundi's night. There
were garlands of roses, festoons of roses, bouquets of roses; roses
overhead, roses under foot, everywhere roses.

Summer had returned triumphant to deck the favourite's path.

Randal Courteney marked it all gravely, without contempt. It was her
hour.

No word from her had reached him, but that night he would meet her face
to face. Through days and nights of troubled thought, the resolve had