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Page 27
The discouraging emptiness of life had mysteriously vanished for Rose.
Her restlessness disappeared as though by magic and her indefinite
hunger had been, in some way, appeased. She had unconsciously emerged
from one state into another, as the tiny dwellers of the sea cast off
their shells. She had a sense of freedom and a large vision, as of
dissonances resolved into harmony.
Clothes, also, which, as Madame had said, are "supposed to please and
satisfy women," had taken to themselves a new significance. Rose had
made herself take heed of her clothes, but she had never had much real
interest. Now she was glad of the time she had spent in planning her
gowns, merely with a view to pleasing Aunt Francesca.
To-night, she wore a clinging gown of deep green velvet, with a spray of
green leaves in her hair. Her only ornament was a pin of jade, in an
Oriental setting. Allison looked at her admiringly.
"There's something about you," he said, "that I don't know just how to
express. I have no words for it, but, in some way, you seem to live up
to your name."
"How so?" Rose asked, demurely.
"Well, I've never seen you wear anything that a rose might not wear.
I've seen you in red and green and yellow and pink and white, but never
in blue or purple, or any of those soft-coloured things that Aunt
Francesca wears."
"That only means," answered Rose, flushing, "that blue and grey and tan
and lavender aren't becoming to me."
"That isn't it," Allison insisted, "for you'd be lovely in anything.
You're living up to your name."
"Go on," Rose suggested mischievously. "This is getting interesting."
"You needn't laugh. I assure you that men know more about those things
than they're usually given credit for. Your jewels fit in with the whole
idea, too. That jade pin, for instance, and your tourmaline necklace,
and your ruby ring, and the topazes you wear with yellow, and the faint
scent of roses that always hangs about you."
"What else?" she smiled.
"Well, I had a note from you the other day. It was fragrant with rose
petals and the conventionalised rose, in gold and white, that was
stamped in place of a monogram, didn't escape me. Besides, here's this."
He took from his pocket a handkerchief of sheerest linen, delicately
hemstitched. In one corner was embroidered a rose, in palest shades of
pink and green. The delicate, elusive scent filled the room as he shook
it out.
"There," he continued, with a laugh. "I found it in my violin case the
other day. I don't know how it came there, but it was much the same as
finding a rose twined about the strings."
Aunt Francesca was on the other side of the room, by the fire. Her face,
in the firelight, was as delicate as a bit of carved ivory. Her thoughts
were far away--one could see that. Isabel sat near her, apparently
absorbed in a book, but, in reality, listening to every word.
"I wish," Allison was saying, "that people knew how to live up to
themselves. That's an awkward phrase, but I don't know of anything
better. Even their names don't fit 'em, and they get nicknames."
"'Father calls me William,'" murmured Rose.
"'And Mother calls me Will,'" Allison went on. "That's it, exactly. See
how the 'Margarets' are adjusted to themselves by their friends. Some
are 'Margie' and more of 'em are 'Peggy.' 'Margaret' who is allowed to
wear her full name is very rare."
"I'm glad my name can't be changed, easily," she said, thoughtfully.
"It could be 'Rosie,' with an 'ie,' and if you were that sort, it would
be. Take Aunt Francesca, for instance. She might be 'Frances' or 'Fanny'
or even 'Fran,' but her name suits her, so she gets the full benefit of
it, every time."
Madame turned away from the fire, with the air of one who has been away
upon a long journey. "Did I hear my name? Did someone speak to me?"
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