Rose might seem to the ordinary observer somewhat unresponsive. She sat
there, whether it were tea-time, dressing-time, bed-time, always staring
in front of her, her mouth closed, her arms, bow-shaped, standing
stiffly away from her side, taking, it might seem, but little interest
in her mistress's confidences. Did one give her tea she only dribbled at
the lip; did one place upon her head a straw hat with red ribbon torn
from poor May--once a reigning favourite--she made no effort to keep it
upon her head. Jewels and gold could rouse no appreciation from her; she
was sunk in a lethargy that her rose-red cheeks most shamefully belied.

But Angelina had the key to her. Angelina understood that confiding
silence, appreciated that tactful discretion, adored that complete
submission to her will. It was true that her friend had only come once
to her now within the space of many, many weeks, but he had sent her
Rose. "He's coming soon, Wose--weally soon--to tell us stowies.
Bu-ootiful ones."

She sat, gazing down into the Square, and her dreams were longer and
longer and longer.


IV

Miss Emily Braid was a softer creature than her sister, and she had,
somewhere in her heart, some sort of affection for her niece. She made,
now and then, little buccaneering raids upon the nursery, with the
intention of arriving at some intimate terms with that strange animal.
But she had no gift of ease with children; her attempts at friendliness
were viewed by Angelina with the gravest suspicion and won no return.
This annoyed Miss Emily, and because she was conscious that she herself