And the story was told as they sat together by the open window in the pleasant room; and when they had drank tea at five o'clock, much remaining yet to be told—much in spite of the gaps Fan saw fit to leave in her narrative—Mary said:
“Will you dine with me, Fan? You shall name the hour yourself if you will only stay—seven, eight, nine if you like.”
“I shall only be too glad to stay for as long as you care to have me,” said Fan.
“Then will you sleep here? I have a guest's room all ready, a lovely little room, only I think if you sleep there I shall sit by your bedside all night.”
“Then if I stay I shall sleep with you, Mary, so as not to keep you up,” said Fan laughing. “Can I send a telegram to my landlady to say that I shall not be home to-night?”
“Yes; after it gets cool we might walk to the post-office in the Grove to send it.”
And thus it was agreed, and so much had they to say to each other that not until the morning light began to steal into their bedroom, to discover them lying on one pillow, raven-black and golden tresses mingled together, did any drowsy feeling come to them. And even then at intervals they spoke.
“Mary,” said Fan, after a rather long silence, “have you ever heard of Rosie since?”
“No; but I saw her once. I went to the Alhambra to see a ballet that was admired very much, and I recognised Rosie on the stage in spite of her paint and ballet dress. I couldn't stay another moment after that. I should have left the theatre if—if—well, never mind. Don't speak again, Fan, we must go to sleep now.”
But another question was inevitable. “Just one word more, Mary; have you never heard of Captain Horton since?”