"Nothing, silly." And she passed on, turned to the right, and met Sylvia Quest, looking very frail and delicate in her bath-robe and powdered hair. The girl passed her with the same timid, almost embarrassed little inclination with which she now invariably greeted her, and Rosalie turned and caught her, turning her around with a laugh. "What is the matter, dear?"
"M-matter?" stammered Sylvia, trembling under the reaction.
"Yes. You are not very friendly, and I've always liked you. Have I offended you, Sylvia?"
She was looking smilingly straight into the blue eyes.
"No—oh, no!" said the girl hastily. "How can you think that, Mrs. Dysart?"
"Then I don't think it," replied Rosalie, laughing. "You are a trifle pale, dear. Touch up your lips a bit. It's very Louis XVI. See mine?... Will you kiss me, Sylvia?"
Again a strange look flickered in the girl's eyes; Rosalie kissed her gently; she had turned very white.
"What is your costume?" asked Mrs. Dysart.
"Flame colour and gold."
"Hell's own combination, dear," laughed Rosalie. "You will make an exquisite little demon shepherdess."