Just as I was walking away from the hotel I perceived Rosa's victoria

drawing up before the portico. She saw me. We exchanged a long look--a

look charged with anxious questionings. Then she beckoned to me, and

I, as it were suddenly waking from a trance, raised my hat, and went

to her.

"Get in," she said, without further greeting. "We will drive to the

Arc de Triomphe and back. I was going to call on Mrs. Sullivan

Smith,--just a visit of etiquette,--but I will postpone that."

Her manner was constrained, as it had been on the previous day, but I

could see that she was striving hard to be natural. For myself, I did

not speak. I felt nervous, even irritable, in my love for her.

Gradually, however, her presence soothed me, slackened the tension of

my system, and I was able to find a faint pleasure in the beauty of

the September afternoon, and of the girl by my side, in the smooth

movement of the carriage, and the general gaiety and color of the

broad tree-lined Champs Elysées.

"Why do you ask me to drive with you?" I asked her at length, abruptly

yet suavely. Amid the noise of the traffic we could converse with the

utmost privacy.

"Because I have something to say to you," she answered, looking

straight in front of her.

"Before you say it, one question occurs to me. You are dressed in

black; you are in mourning for Sir Cyril, your father, who is not even

buried. And yet you told me just now that you were paying a mere visit

of etiquette to my cousin Emmeline. Is it usual in Paris for ladies in

mourning to go out paying calls? But perhaps you had a special object

in calling on Emmeline."

"I had," she replied at once with dignity, "and I did not wish you to

know."

"What was it?"

"Really, Mr. Foster--"

"'Mr. Foster!'"

"Yes; I won't call you Carl any more. I have made a mistake, and it

is as well you should hear of it now. I can't love you. I have

misunderstood my feelings. What I feel for you is gratitude, not love.

I want you to forget me."

She was pale and restless.

"Rosa!" I exclaimed warningly.

"Yes," she continued urgently and feverishly, "forget me. I may seem

cruel, but it is best there should be no beating about the bush. I

can't love you."




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