She put her arm around the younger woman and led her to the couch. Every hint of colour faded from Rose's face; her eyes were wide and staring, her lips scarcely pink. "I must go away," she murmured.
"Where, dearest?"
"Anywhere—oh, anywhere!"
"I know, dear, believe me, I know, but it never does any good to run away from things that must be faced sooner or later. We women have our battles to fight as well as the men who go to war, and the same truth applies to both—that only a coward will retreat under fire."
Rose sighed and clenched her hands together tightly.
"Once there was a ship," said Madame, softly, "sinking in mid-ocean, surrounded by fog. It had drifted far out of its course, and collided with a derelict. The captain ordered the band to play, the officers put on their dress uniforms and their white gloves. Another ship, that was drifting, too, signalled in answer to the music, and all were saved."
"That was possible—but there can be no signal for me."
"Perhaps not, but let's put on our white gloves and order out the band."
The unconscious plural struck Rose with deep significance. "Did you— know, Aunt Francesca?"
"Yes, dear."