with comedy. Even in that long ago bitterness, when Norman
Douglas had, after a fashion, jilted her, she had laughed at
herself quite as often as she had cried.

"I expect there'll be some sulking, St. George. Yes, Saint, I
expect we are in for a few unpleasant foggy days. Well, we'll
weather them through, George. We've dealt with foolish children
before, Saint. Rosemary'll sulk a while--and then she'll get
over it--and all will be as before, George. She promised--and
she's got to keep her promise. And that's the last word on the
subject I'll say to you or her or anyone, Saint."

But Ellen lay savagely awake till morning.

There was no sulking, however. Rosemary was pale and quiet the
next day, but beyond that Ellen could detect no difference in
her. Certainly, she seemed to bear Ellen no grudge. It was
stormy, so no mention was made of going to church. In the
afternoon Rosemary shut herself in her room and wrote a note to
John Meredith. She could not trust herself to say "no" in
person. She felt quite sure that if he suspected she was
saying "no" reluctantly he would not take it for an answer, and
she could not face pleading or entreaty. She must make him think
she cared nothing at all for him and she could do that only by
letter. She wrote him the stiffest, coolest little refusal
imaginable. It was barely courteous; it certainly left no
loophole of hope for the boldest lover--and John Meredith was
anything but that. He shrank into himself, hurt and mortified,
when he read Rosemary's letter next day in his dusty study. But
under his mortification a dreadful realization presently made