III

THE VOICE OF THE VIOLIN

Madame Bernard and Isabel had not yet come down when Rose entered the
living-room, half an hour before dinner. The candles were lighted, and
in the soft glow of the reading lamp was a vase of pink roses, sent by
Colonel Kent to his old friend. The delicate sweetness filled the room
and mingled with the faint scent of attar of roses and dried rose petals
which, as always, hung about the woman who stood by the table, idly
rearranging the flowers.

The ruby ring caught the light and sent tiny crimson gleams dancing into
the far shadows. Her crepe gown was almost the colour of the ruby; warm
and blood-red. It was cut low at the throat, and an old Oriental
necklace of wonderfully wrought gold was the only ornament she wore,
aside from the ring. The low light gave the colour of the gown back to
her face, beautiful as always, and in her dusky hair she had a single
crimson rose.

Aunt Francesca had said that the Colonel was very much pleased with the
house and glad to be at home again. She had sent over her own cook to
prepare their first dinner, which, however, she had declined to share,
contenting herself with ordering a feast suited to the Colonel's taste.
To-night, they were to dine with her and meet the other members of her
household.

Madame came in gowned in lustreless white, with heliotrope at her belt
and in her hair. She wore a quaintly wrought necklace of amethysts set