on the sofa by the cold fireplace, and she let him lift her light little
body to his knee. "Would you tell me one, about when you were lost?"

"I'll try," Hugh said. "Let me think, what story shall I tell?"

"I won't speak while you're remembering," Rosemary promised, leaning her
head confidingly against his shoulder. "I always keep quiet, while Angel
puts on her thinking cap."

Hugh laughed, and was silent. But his head was too hot to wear a
thinking cap, and no story would come at his half-hearted call.

Rosemary waited in patience for him to begin. "One, two, three," she
counted under her breath; for she had learned to count up to fifty, and
it was good practice when one wished to make the time pass. She had
just come to forty-nine, and was wondering if she might remind the fairy
father of his duty, when the door opened.

It was Angel, of course; but Angel did not come in. She stopped on the
threshold, talking to somebody, or rather somebody was talking to her.
Rosemary could not see the person, but she recognised the voice. It was
that of Mademoiselle de Lavalette.

"You are not to write my mother letters, and trouble us about that
money, madame," said the voice, as shrill now as it could be sweet.
"Once for all, I will not have it. I have followed you to tell you this.
You will be paid soon; that is enough. I am engaged to be married to a
rich man, an American. He will be glad to pay all our debts by and by;
but meantime, madame, you are to let us alone."