“Unhappy?” she echoed. “No. When one has learned at last that life is a constant scraping of the gilt, and being thankful for the gingerbread, one is not unhappy. I have my friends.” She touched Rose’s hand. “I have my work. There are beautiful things in the world—and I have time for them now. ‘Sun, moon, and stars, brother,’” she quoted, smiling—“‘all sweet things.’ No, I’m not unhappy, except——”
She broke off abruptly. Rose did not speak, but she looked an interrogation.
“Dick is coming this afternoon—to say good-bye. He’s going away.”
Mrs. Summers raised her head.
“Really away?”
“To Central Africa—if that’s far enough,” returned her friend, with a curious inflection in her voice. She got up, and replaced some Roman hyacinths which had fallen from a glass on a table near the window. “I’m—I’m sorry he’s coming,” she added, speaking with her back to Rose.
“Why? You think——?”
“We’ve said good-bye. I met him in Rome.”
She felt rather than saw Rose’s start of reproachful amazement.
“Don’t say anything. Don’t ask,” she exclaimed, hurriedly. “It was by accident.” She put back the last flower, and returned to the sofa, where her friend was sitting. Rose saw that her hands were trembling.