As she felt her feet sink deep in rich Oriental rugs, as her eyes feasted themselves upon oil paintings, tapestries and rare bits of statuary that had been gathered from every corner of the globe, she could not so much as regret the deception that had gained her entrance to this world of rare treasures.
“But would I wish to live here?” she asked herself. “It is like living in a museum.”
When she had entered Rosemary’s own little personal study, when she had feasted her eyes upon all the small objects of rare charm that were Rosemary’s own, upon the furniture done by master craftsmen and the interior decorated by a real artist, when she had touched the soft creations of silk that were curtains, drapes and pillows, she murmured:
“Yes. Here is that which would bring happiness to any soul who loves beauty and knows it when he sees it.”
“But we must not remain indoors on a day such as this!” Rosemary exclaimed. “Come!” She seized her new friend’s hand. “We will go out into the sunshine. You are a sun worshipper, are you not?”
“Perhaps,” said Jeanne who, you must not forget, was for the day Pierre Andrews. “I truly do not know.”
“There are many sun worshippers these days.” Rosemary laughed a merry laugh. “And why not? Does not the sun give us life? And if we rest beneath his rays much of the time, does he not give us a more abundant life?”
“See!” Pierre, catching the spirit of the hour, held out a bare arm as brown as the dead leaves of October. “I am a sun worshipper!”
At this they went dancing down the hall.
“But, see!” Rosemary exclaimed. “Here is the organ!” She threw open a door, sprang to a bench, touched a switch here, a stop there, then began sending out peals of sweet, low, melodious music.