wished she could offer homage for a change, and the colossal figure of
her imagination loomed up again; a rough man, perhaps; yes, he might
be rough if he were also great; rough and the scandal of her
stepsisters!

As she rode under the flowering trees to the stable where she kept her
horse, she wondered whether she should tell her stepsisters of Francis
Sales's proposal, but she knew she would not do so. She seldom told
them anything they did not know already. They would think it a
reasonable match; they might urge her acceptance; they were anxious
for her to marry, but Caroline, at least, was proud of the inherent
Mallett distaste for the marriage state. 'We're all flirts,' she would
say for the thousandth time. 'We can't settle down, not one of us,'
and holding up a thumb and forefinger and pinching them together, she
would add, 'We like to hold men's hearts like that--and let them go!'
It was great nonsense, Rose thought, but it had the necessary spice of
truth. The Malletts were not easily pleased, and they were not good
givers of anything except gold, the easiest thing to give. Rose wished
she could give the difficult things--love, devotion, and self-sacrifice;
but she could not, or perhaps she had no opportunity. She was fond
of her stepsisters, but her most conscious affection was the one she
felt for her horse.

She left him at the stable and, fastening up her riding-skirt, she
walked slowly home. She had not far to go. A steep street, where
narrow-fronted old houses informed the public that apartments were to
be let within, brought her to the broad space of grass and trees
called The Green, which she had just passed on her horse. Straight
ahead of her was the wide street flanked by houses of which her home
was one--a low white building hemmed in on each side by another and