Because of Isabel, whom he felt that he could not meet, the Colonel did
not go over to Bernard's. Allison had not alluded to her in any way, but
Madame had told the Colonel at the first opportunity. He had said,
quietly: "A small gain for so great a loss," and made no further
comment, yet it was evident that he was relieved.

Rose and Allison were back upon their old friendly footing, to all
intents and purposes. Never by word or look did Rose betray herself;
never by the faintest hint did Allison suggest that their relation to
each other had in any way been changed. He was frankly glad to have her
with him, urged her to come earlier and to stay later, and gratefully
accepted every kindness she offered.

Perhaps he had forgotten--Rose rather thought he had, but her self-
revelation stood before her always like a vivid, scarlet hour in a
procession of grey days. Yet the sting and shame of it were curiously
absent, for nothing could exceed the gentle courtesy and deference that
Allison instinctively accorded her. He saw her always as a thing apart;
a goddess who, through divine pity, had stooped for an instant to be a
woman--and had swiftly returned to her pedestal.

Sustained by the joy of service, Rose asked no more. Only to plan little
surprises for him, to anticipate every unspoken wish, to keep him cheery
and hopeful, to read or play to him without being asked--these things
were as the life-blood to her heart.

She had blossomed, too, into a new beauty. The forty years had put lines
of silver into her hair, but had been powerless to do more. Her lovely
face, where the colour came and went, the fleeting dimple at the corner
of her mouth and the crimson curve of her lips were eloquent with the