"Golden Rose," he said, taking both her hands in his, "tell me you are glad—say that you wish me joy."
Her eyes met his clearly. "I do," she smiled. "There is no one in the world for whom I wish joy more than I do for you."
"And I say the same," chimed in Madame, who had closely followed Rose.
"Dear little foster mother," said Allison, tenderly, putting a strong arm around her. He had not yet released Rose's hand, nor did he note that it was growing cold. "I owe you everything," he went on; "even Isabel."
He kissed her, then, laughing, turned to Rose. "May I?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he turned her face to his, and kissed her on the lips.
Cold as ice and shaken to the depths of her soul, Rose stumbled out of the room, murmuring brokenly of a forgotten letter which must be immediately written. Madame lingered for the space of half an hour, talking brightly of everything under the sun, then followed Rose, turning in the doorway as she went out, to say: "Can't you even thank me for leaving you alone?"
"Bless her," said Allison, fondly. "What sweet women they are!"
"Yes," answered Isabel, spitefully, "especially Rose."
He laughed heartily. "What a little goose you are, sweetheart. Kiss me, dear—dearest."
"I won't," she flashed back, stubbornly, nor would she, until at last, by superior strength, he took his lover's privilege from lips that refused to yield.