g-room, which was just as of old.
Except that a neat maid had opened the door, instead of a butler, he saw
no change.

Rose looked a little nervous for a moment, and then frankly pleased to
see him. Edmund always had a talent for seeming to be as natural in any
house as if he were the husband or the brother or part of the furniture.
Somehow, as Rose gave him tea and they settled into a chat, she felt as
if he had been there very often lately, whereas in fact she had not seen
him since David died, except at the memorial service. He began to tell
her what visits he had paid, whom he had seen, the little gossip he
expressed so well in his gentle, sleepy voice; and then he drew her on
as to her own interests, her charities, her work for the soldiers'
wives. He said nothing more that day, but he dropped in again soon, and
then again.

At last one evening he observed quite quietly, in a pause in their talk:
"So you live here on L800 a year?"

Rose did not feel annoyed, though she did not know why she was not
angry.

"Yes, I can manage," she said simply.

"You can't tell yet; it's too soon." He got up out of his low chair near
the fireplace, now filled with plants, and stood with his back against
the chimney. "You know it's absurd," he said. Rose moved uneasily and
was silent.

"It's absurd," he repeated, "there's another will somewhere. David would
never have done that." He struck that note at the start, and cursed
David all the deeper in the depths of his diplomatic soul. Rose looked
at him gratefully, kindly.

"I think there is another will somewhere," she said, "but I am sure it
will never be found. It's no use to think or talk of it, Edmund."

He fidgeted for a moment with the china on the chimney-piece.

"For 'auld lang syne,' Rose," he said in a very low voice, "and because
you might possibly, just possibly, have made something of me if you had
chosen, let me know a little more about it. I want to see what was in
his last letter."

Rose flushed deeply. It was difficult to say why she yielded except that
most people did yield to Grosse if he got them alone. She drew off the
third finger of her left hand a very remarkable diamond ring and gave it
to him. Then she took out of a drawer a faded photograph of a young,
commonplace, open-faced officer, now framed in an exquisite stamped
leather case, and handed that to him also. He saw that she hesitated.

"May I have the rest," he said very gently. Even her mothe