Rosemary had tears in her eyes and voice, when the fairy father stopped
his car at the door of the hotel. He had driven so very quickly since
he'd broken it to her that they must part!

"Now, have you to vanish this very minute?" she asked, choking back a
sob, as he lifted her to the ground.

Vanish? He had forgotten all about vanishing. To vanish now was the last
thing he wished to do.

"Something tells me that I shan't have to,--quite yet, anyhow," he said
hastily. "I--want to see your mother. Has she a sitting-room where I
could call upon her, or wait till she comes in?"

"We haven't one of our own," said Rosemary. "But there's a nice old lady
who lives next door to us, on the top floor, and is very good to Angel
and me. She writes stories, and things for the papers, and Angel types
them, sometimes. When she's away she lets us use the sitting-room where
she writes; and she's away now. Angel and I are going to be there this
evening till it's my bed-time; and you can come up with me if you will.
Oh, I'm so thankful you don't need to vanish for a little while."

His heart pounding as it had not pounded for six years and more--(not
since the days when he had gone up other stairs, in another land, to
see an Evelyn)--Hugh followed the flitting figure of the child.

The stairs and corridors were not lighted yet. One economises with
electric light and many other little things at a hotel pension, where
the prices are "from five francs a day, _vin compris_."