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Page 11
Allison only smiled, taking the little hand in his strong young clasp,
but his father bent, hat in hand, to kiss the one she offered him.
"Oh," cried Madame, "I'm so glad to see you both. Come in!"
They entered their own hospitable house, where fires blazed and the
kettle sang. "Say," said Allison, "isn't this great! Why did we ever
leave it? Isn't it fine, Father?"
But "father" still had his eyes upon the dainty little lady who had
brought forth the miracle of home from a wilderness of dust and ashes.
He bent again over the small, white hand.
"A woman, a fire, and a singing kettle," he said. "All the dear,
familiar spirits of the house to welcome us home."
III
THE VOICE OF THE VIOLIN
Madame Bernard and Isabel had not yet come down when Rose entered the
living-room, half an hour before dinner. The candles were lighted, and
in the soft glow of the reading lamp was a vase of pink roses, sent by
Colonel Kent to his old friend. The delicate sweetness filled the room
and mingled with the faint scent of attar of roses and dried rose petals
which, as always, hung about the woman who stood by the table, idly
rearranging the flowers.
The ruby ring caught the light and sent tiny crimson gleams dancing into
the far shadows. Her crepe gown was almost the colour of the ruby; warm
and blood-red. It was cut low at the throat, and an old Oriental
necklace of wonderfully wrought gold was the only ornament she wore,
aside from the ring. The low light gave the colour of the gown back to
her face, beautiful as always, and in her dusky hair she had a single
crimson rose.
Aunt Francesca had said that the Colonel was very much pleased with the
house and glad to be at home again. She had sent over her own cook to
prepare their first dinner, which, however, she had declined to share,
contenting herself with ordering a feast suited to the Colonel's taste.
To-night, they were to dine with her and meet the other members of her
household.
Madame came in gowned in lustreless white, with heliotrope at her belt
and in her hair. She wore a quaintly wrought necklace of amethysts set
in silver, and silver buckles, set with amethysts, on her white shoes.
More than once Rose had laughingly accused her of being vain of her
feet.
"Why shouldn't I be vain?" she had retorted, in self-defence. "Aren't
they pretty?"
"Of course they are," smiled Rose, bending down to kiss her. "They're
the prettiest little feet in all the world."
Madame's fancy ran seriously to shoes and stockings, of which she had a
marvellous collection. Silk stockings in grey and white, and in all
shades of lavender and purple, embroidered and plain, with shoes to
match in satin and suede, occupied a goodly space in her wardrobe. At
Christmas-time and on her birthday, Rose always gave her more, for it
was the one gift which could never fail to please.
"How lovely the house is," said Madame, looking around appreciatively.
"I hope the dinner will be good."
"I've never known it to be otherwise," Rose assured her.
"Am I all right? Is my skirt even?"
"You are absolutely perfect, Aunt Francesca."
"Then play to me, my dear. If my outward semblance is in keeping, please
put my mind into a holiday mood."
Rose ran her fingers lightly over the keys. "What shall I play?"
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