She was gone before I recognised that the precious thing she had given me was a sprig of Rosemary.
Postscript
The True Story
It was by the merest accident that we gathered that delightful piece of information—on our first trip to England, not quite three years after we were married.
I did not know that “The Mulberry Bush” had been revived for a few weeks as a stop-gap, until we saw the boards outside the theatre. Anne insisted that we should go in, and the arbiters of coincidence ordained that I should take seats in the stalls immediately behind one of those well-informed society women who know the truth about everything.
We were somewhat amused by her omniscience during the first interval, but it was not until the second that she came to the priceless report of our own two selves.
I was not listening to her when she began, but Anne’s sudden grasp of my arm and the inclination of her head, awoke me to the fact that the gossip just in front of us must, for some reason or other, be instantly attended to.
There was a good deal of chatter going on in the auditorium and I missed an occasional sentence here and there in addition to the opening, but there could be no doubt as to the application of the reminiscence I heard.
“Got himself into a scrape and had to leave the country,” was the first thing that reached me. “As a matter of fact I had the whole story from some one who was actually staying in the house at the time.” She dropped her voice as she added something confidentially of which I only caught the sound of the name Jervaise. Anne was squeezing my arm violently.