"Don't ask me. It is your expedition, not mine."
What Rose would have done, is uncertain. She was looking at the man in hesitation, perhaps thinking of the room and the key, when who should turn into the yard with a light quick step but Mr. St. John himself.
Not changed--not a whit changed. The same high bearing, the same distinguished form and face, the same frank manners, possessing for all so irresistible a fascination.
Rose, in a somewhat confused, anything but an explanatory, greeting--for she would not tell him the truth of what she wanted, lest he should decline it--said she had come to request him to accompany her for a short time. He answered that he was at her service, and in another moment the three were walking down the street together.
"Of all the sticklers for etiquette, I think Mary Carr's the worst," began Rose. "I wonder she does not apply for a post as maid-of-honour at court. The man asked us to go and wait in your rooms, and I should have gone had you not come in. She looked fit to faint at the bare idea."
Mr. St. John laughed; his old low musical laugh.
"Where would have been the harm?" went on Rose. "We are cousins, you know."
"Of course we are," said Mr. St. John. "I thought you both expected to have been in England before this?"
"We shall be there shortly now. At least, I shall. Mary, I believe, is going first to Holland. And you? You are going to Paris, we hear."
"Yes, but not to stay. My old roving love of travel has come upon me, and I think I shall gratify it. A friend of mine leaves Paris next week for a prolonged exploration of the Holy Land, and I feel inclined to accompany him."