could see that fires
were lighted in the stone-grey eyes that banished all its masklike
impassivity and brought a wonderful beauty into it. She stood
trembling to his kiss and his voice and the magic of her love for him.
Almost it seemed as if she must do as he wished. But she knew she must
not. If her mother once knew, everyone would have to know, and how
brutal that would be to him when she had to tell him that it must all
come to an end, that she could not and would not marry him!

"You must let me tell her tonight," he was saying, with quiet firmness.

"No, no!" she faltered.

"Yes. And there is another thing; give me your left hand, Rosanne."

She did not give it so much as that he drew it from behind her. It was
tightly clenched. Holding it in his own, he drew her to a chair at
last. She seemed to have no more strength to resist. Then, sitting
down before her, he gently unclenched one finger after another until
what she had hidden there lay sparkling in the night. Almost as if it
had been something evil, he shook it from her palm into her lap, and
taking her hand to his lips, kissed it, then placed upon the third
finger a ring.

"You must only like the jewels I give you, Rosanne," he said, with
unveiled meaning.

They sat there for a long, aching, exquisitely silent moment, her hand
in his, the great square emerald set in a wonderful filigree and
scrolling of gold on her finger, the other thing gleaming with a
baleful light between them. Then the spell broke with the roll of
carriage wheels on the drive. A minute later, Mrs. Ozanne came into
the veranda, Rosalie clinging to her arm. Harlenden was on his feet
instantly, and, before Rosanne could intervene, had proffered his
request to speak to her mother. The latter looked as much dazed by his
words as his presence.

"Not tonight, Sir Denis, please."

"It is rather important," he pleaded, looking very boyish. But she
seemed to notice nothing, and shook her head.

"Some other time--my poor Rosalie is ill--in trouble; she has heard
some distressing news."

He drew back at once, apologizing, and a few minutes later was gone.
Rosanne followed her mother and sister into the house, a strangely
yearning, sorrowful look upon her face. Nothing was said. Rosalie
seemed half-fainting, and her mother, still supporting her, led her to
the door of her bedroom. They disappeared together. Rosanne stared
after them, but made no attempt to help. When