"To get away from the world, silly. And now—there's a look about you. When I was a little girl, my father was a great man, and many great men used to come to our house. I know what the frown of power is and the attitude of greatness. You have them—much more than any pompous old magnate I ever laid eyes on. The way you touch things and handle them, the way you square your shoulders. Sometimes I think you're not real at all and just an imaginary knight come to storm my castle. And sometimes I think you're a very famous man whose afternoon walk just has been extended for a few months. The first thought frightens me, and the second makes me wonder why I haven't seen your picture in the Sunday rotogravures."
Hugo's shoulders shook. "Poor Princess Roseanne. And what do I think about you, then—"
She held up her hand. "Don't tell me, Hugo. I should be sad. After all, my life—"
"May be what it does not appear to be."
She took a brittle pine twig and dug in the mould of the needles until it broke. "Ralph—was different once. He was a chemist. Then—the war came. And he was there and a shell—"
"Ah," Hugo said. "And you loved him before?"
"I had promised him before. But it changed him so. And it's hard."
"The carpet," he answered gently. "The carpet—"
"I almost dropped off, and then I'd have been hurt, wouldn't I?"
"A favour for a favour. I'm not a great man, but I hope to be one. I have something that I think is a talent. Let it go at that. The letters come from my father and mother—in Colorado."