"Besides," he went on, "what could we do? Separation wouldn't last long, if he wants her, and talking would only alienate him from us. Perhaps you could bear it, but I—I couldn't."
"Nor I," she returned, quickly. "When we come to the sundown road, we need all the love we have managed to take with us from the summit of the hill. I hadn't meant to say anything to anyone," she went on, in a changed tone, "but my heart was full, and you are—"
"Your best friend, Francesca, as you are mine. It seems to take a lifetime for us to learn that wisdom consists largely in a graceful acceptance of things that do not immediately concern us."
"How like you," she responded, with a touch of her old manner. "I ask for comfort and you give me an epigram."
"Many people find satisfaction in epigrams," he reminded her. "Sometimes a snap-shot is better than an oil painting."
"Or a geometrical design, or even a map," she continued, catching his mood. The talk drifted to happier themes and Madame was quite herself again at dusk, when she rose to go.
On the way back, she passed Allison, returning home to dinner by a well- worn path, but he was thinking of something else and did not see her at all.
The lilac-scented midnight was starred here and there with white blooms when May went out and June came in. Drifts of "bridal wreath" were banked against the side of the house and a sweet syringa breathed out a faint perfume toward the hedge of lilacs beyond. Blown petals of pink and white died on the young grass beneath Madame's wild crab-apple tree, transplanted from a distant woodland long ago to glorify her garden.
The hour was one of enchantment, yet to Rose, leaning out into the moonless night, the beauty of it brought only pain. She wondered, dully, if she should ever find surcease; if somewhere, on the thorny path ahead, there might not be some place where she could lay the burden of her heartache down. Her pride, that had so long sustained her, was beginning to fail her now. It no longer seemed more vital than life itself that Allison should not know.
She had the hurt woman's longing for escape, but could think of no excuse for flight. She knew Aunt Francesca would manage it, in some way, should she ask, and that she would be annoyed by no troublesome questions, yet loyalty held her fast, for she knew how lonely the little old lady would be without her.