We sat long after dinner on that last evening. Rose’s boxes were packed, her room at the Hostel and her easel at the Slade awaited her. She had said all her good-byes in the neighbourhood, and no doubt more than one of her dancing friends had her address in his pocket-book. In short, practically every boat was burnt. All our talk, therefore, was of the future. If Eustace was not too unwilling, she said, she should go to Paris after a while. As a maffact, Paris was, of course, the place. London was only a makeshift. She would probably go on to Paris anyway—father or no father. Because one must be thorough. London was looking up—everybody said so—Chelsea had produced some wonderful things—but for an artist Paris was the true Alma Mater. Even Chelsea had had to go to Paris first.
It was all a question of money. Surely when she was twenty-one her father would allow her something reasonable?
“Not for the purpose of doing anything of which he might disapprove,” I said.
O well, she would see. She would begin at the Slade, anyway, and make up her mind gradually. “But of course,” she repeated, “Paris is the place. Sooner or later I must be there. I can hear it calling all the while.”
Having said those words, Rose left the window where she had been standing and walked into the garden, whither no doubt she expected me to follow her.
I was about to do so when there was a knock at the door and Suzanne entered, with a curious excited flush on her face.
She stood there a moment, as though trying to speak, and then, stepping aside, made room for some one in a black dress and veil, and was gone.
“Dombeen!” cried the stranger, and buried her thin, tired face on my shoulder.
Of what I said I have no memory. I can remember only stroking her head and hushing her like a child.
“Don’t cry, don’t cry,” I may have murmured; but it was foolish, for tears were her best friends.