1

rose is sitting by the fire with her bare feet in slippers and a dressing-wrap flung loosely round her.

"are you ill?"

"no," she says, smiling.

and her cool hands, pressing mine, and her gay kisses on my cheeks are no less reassuring than the actual reply.

"but why are you not dressed?"

"i don't know; time passed and i let them bring my lunch up to me."

i look round the darkened bedroom. through the blind which i lowered yesterday, the light enters timidly, in a thousand broken little shafts; on the table, the books still lie as i placed them; on the chimney-shelf, the flowers, withered by the heat of the fire, are fading and drooping.

all these things which had been left untouched were evidence of a lethargy that hurt me. all the emotions

which i had been picturing rose as experiencing since the day before had not so much as brushed against her. one by one, they dropped back sadly upon my heart.

i rose, moved the flowers, opened the window; and the bright sunshine restored my confidence.

"come, darling, dress and let's go out."

a thousand questions come crowding to my lips while i help her do her hair:

"do they look after you well? do you feel very lonely? what are the other boarders like? are any of them interesting?"

her answers, sensible and placid as usual, did not tell me much, except that the food was good, that she had slept well and that she was very comfortable.

i resolved to wait a few days before asking her any more.

2

roseline throws off her wrap and begins dressing. the water trickles from the sponge which she squeezes over her shoulders, runs down, lingers here and there and disappears along the flowing lines

of her body, which, in the broad daylight, looks as though it were flooded with diamonds. a cool fragrance mingles with the scent of the roses. the room is filled with beauty.