"I've got to go," he said. "You've been a darling, to me. I'm crazy about you; I suppose you know that?"
Her slow smile drove deep dimples into her white cheeks; she looked at him warmly; and yet, had he not been too excited to note it, with an acute appraisement. "We're to be here another month," she said, not answering his query, "leave me your address; you have mine."
"Will you write?"
"Reams. And who knows? We may meet again some day."
"That's what I feel; that we haven't met just to part. You're wonderful. You're the most wonderful woman I've ever met."
"And you—you've never told me anything about yourself, Osborn."
"There's nothing to tell."
He had Marie's last letter in his breast-pocket at that moment, and as Roselle stirred against him he heard the slight crackling of the paper. It dropped like a trickle of cold water into his excitement and desire. He took Roselle's arm lightly in his hand, and turned about.
"I must take you to tea somewhere," he said; "where shall we go?"
In a shaded tea room, full of screens, rose-lights and china tinkling, he sat looking at her. She was wonderful; with the rather high set of her shoulders, her white, full neck, the depth of her hair and eyes, her short and tenderly kept hands, she was romance. You couldn't imagine such a woman sinking into the household drudge whatever her circumstances; she stood for all that was easy and pleasant, scented and soft, in woman. Osborn felt, as many a man has done and will do again, all memories, all fidelity slipping from him, in the lure of the hour. Leaning forward, he said imperatively: