money, I tried with all my heart to forget, and to do my best for--my
husband. Perhaps it was my punishment that he--oh, Hugh, I was so
miserable. And then--then he went away. He was tired of me. He was on a
yacht, and there was a great storm. But you must have read in the
papers--"

"Never. I never knew till this day."

"It was more than three years ago."

Hugh was very pale. Three years ago--three long years in which he had
worked, and tried not to think of her! And if he had known--"You see,
I've had a queer life, knocking about in strange places," he said,
trying to speak calmly. "Often I didn't see any newspapers for weeks
together. I thought of you always as rich and happy, living in England,
the wife of Sir Edward Clifford--"

"Rich and happy," she repeated, bitterly. "How little one knows of
another's life. After his death, there was nothing--there had been some
wild speculations; and the estates went with the title, of course, to
his cousin. But, yes,--in a way you were right. I was rich and happy
because I had Rosemary."

"And Rosemary had you, Angel," cried the child, who had been listening,
puzzled and bewildered, not knowing that they had forgotten her
presence until this moment. "Rosemary had you. And now we've all got
each other--till the fairy father vanishes."

"But I shan't have to vanish after all," said Hugh.

* * * * *

After that, it seemed they had been together but for a moment, when a
wild wail went moaning through the house; the first gong for the
_pensionnaires'_ dinner.

So loud it was that it hushed their voices for a long minute. And when
cool silence came again, Hugh begged that the two would have their
Christmas Eve dinner with him, at his hotel. "There's so much to plan
for to-morrow, and all the days," he pleaded. "And just for once
Rosemary shall have a late dinner like the grown-ups. Do say yes."

So Evelyn said yes. And it was not until they were all three seated in
the restaurant of the Hotel de Paris, that he remembered he had been
engaged to dine at the Beau Soleil with Mademoiselle and the Comtesse,
her mother.

But he did not even blush because he had forgotten.

CHAPTER EIGHT

WHEN A MAN GOES SHOPPING

Many of Hugh Egerton's best moments during the last six years had been
spent in dreams. In those dreams the past had lived again; for he had
seen the future as once he had hoped it might be for him.

But all through this