"And so," she said to herself, "Love has come back to my house, after many years of absence. I wonder if he cares? He must, oh, he must!" Francesca had no selfish thought of her own loneliness, if her Rose should go away. Though her own heart was forever in the keeping of a distant grave, she could still be glad of another's joy.
Rose turned away from the piano and Allison put his violin into the case. "It's late," he said, regretfully, "and you must be tired."
"Perhaps I am, but I don't know it."
"You respond so fully to the music that it is a great pleasure to play with you. I wish I could always have you as my accompanist."
"I do, too," murmured Rose, turning her face away. The deep colour mounted to the roots of her hair and he studied her impersonally, as he would have studied any other lovely thing.
"Why?" he began, then laughed.
"Why what?" asked Rose, quickly.
"I was about to ask you a very foolish question."
"Don't hesitate," she said. "Most questions are foolish."
"This is worse—it's idiotic. I was going to ask you why you hadn't married."