Allison stirred restlessly, as he recalled how he had heard it before. He saw the drifted petals of fallen roses, the moon-shadow on the dial, hours wrong, the spangled cobwebs in the grass and the other spangles, changed to faint iridescence in the enchanted light as Isabel came toward him and into his open arms. Could marble respond to a lover's passion, could dead lips answer with love for love, then Isabel might have yielded to him at least a tolerant tenderness. He saw her now, alien and apart, like some pale star that shone upon a barren waste, but never for him.
Another phrase, full of love and longing, floated up the stairway and entered his room, a guest unbidden.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
He turned to the nurse. "Ask Miss Bernard to come up for a few minutes, will you?"
"Do you think it's wise?" she temporised.
"Please ask her to come up," he said, imperatively. "Must I call her myself?"
So Rose came up, after receiving the customary caution not to stay too long and avoid everything that might be unpleasant or exciting.
She stood for a moment in the doorway, hesitating. Her face was almost as white as her linen gown, but her eyes were shining with strange fires.
"White Rose," he said, wearily, "I have been through hell."
"I know," she answered, softly, drawing up a chair beside him. "Aunt Francesca and I have wished that we might divide it with you and help you bear it."