nd familiar little home corners, all covered in
brown holland, like sand instead of grass, all golden lights and soft
shadows.

What had there been so very exciting in it--an excitement she could
still recall as keenly now? Was it the greatness of the revolution, or
surprise at the new order of things? It was such a startling
interruption of all the usual relations between the furniture of the
house and its human beings. A great London house wrapped up in the old
way spoke more of the old order its influence, its importance, than did
the house when inhabited, and out of its curl papers. Nothing could
speak more of law and order and care, and the "proper" condition of
things, and the self-respect of housemaids, the passing effectiveness of
sweeps, and the unobtrusive attentiveness of carpenters! But to the
child there had been a glorious sense of loneliness and licence as she
danced up and down the broad vacant spaces and jumped over the rolls of
Turkey carpets.

Rose envied that child now, with an envy that she hoped was not bitter.
It is not because we knew no sorrows in our childhood that we would fain
recall it. It is because we now so seldom know one whole hour of its
licensed freedom, its absolute liberty in spite of bonds.

A loud door-bell, as it seemed to Rose, sounded through the house as she
closed the shutter she had opened when she came in. She knew whose ring
it must be, and came quietly downstairs with a little frown.

Edmund Grosse had been shown into the library. The room looked east, and
was now deliciously cool after the street. The dark blinds were half-way
down, and a little pretence at a breeze was coming in over the burnt
turf of the back garden.

Edmund's manner as he met her was as usual, but tinged perhaps with a
little irony--very little, but just a flavour of it mingled with the
immense friendliness and the wish to serve and help her.

Rose was, to his surprise, almost shy as she came into the room, but in
another moment she was herself.

"Mamma has borne the journey splendidly. I've had an excellent account
in a long telegram this morning."

But while she told him of their journey and of their life in Paris, a
rather piteous look came into the blue eyes. Was she not to hear any of
Edmund's own news? Was she not to be allowed to show any sympathy? She
might not say how she had been thinking of him, dreaming of how nobly he
had met his troubles, praying for him in Notre Dame des Victor