s breath. But it was not a word which Rosemary would
have understood, even if she had heard.

[Illustration: CHAPTER SEVEN]

THE WHITE FIGURE AT THE DOOR

[Illustration: R]

Rosemary had tears in her eyes and voice, when the fairy father stopped
his car at the door of the hotel. He had driven so very quickly since
he'd broken it to her that they must part!

"Now, have you to vanish this very minute?" she asked, choking back a
sob, as he lifted her to the ground.

Vanish? He had forgotten all about vanishing. To vanish now was the last
thing he wished to do.

"Something tells me that I shan't have to,--quite yet, anyhow," he said
hastily. "I--want to see your mother. Has she a sitting-room where I
could call upon her, or wait till she comes in?"

"We haven't one of our own," said Rosemary. "But there's a nice old lady
who lives next door to us, on the top floor, and is very good to Angel
and me. She writes stories, and things for the papers, and Angel types
them, sometimes. When she's away she lets us use the sitting-room where
she writes; and she's away now. Angel and I are going to be there this
evening till it's my bed-time; and you can come up with me if you will.
Oh, I'm so thankful you don't need to vanish for a little while."

His heart pounding as it had not pounded for six years and more--(not
since the days when he had gone up other stairs, in another land, to
see an Evelyn)--Hugh followed the flitting figure of the child.

The stairs and corridors were not lighted yet. One economises with
electric light and many other little things at a hotel pension, where
the prices are "from five francs a day, _vin compris_."

Rosemary opened a door on the fourth floor, and for a moment the
twilight on the other side was shot for Hugh with red and purple spots.
But the colours faded when the childish voice said, "Angel isn't here.
If you'll come in, I'll go and see if she's in our room."

"Don't tell her--don't say--anything about a fairy father," he
stammered.

"Oh no, that's to be the surprise," Rosemary reassured him, as she
pattered away.

It was deep twilight in the room, and rather cold, for the eucalyptus
and olive logs in the fireplace still awaited the match. Hugh could see
the blurred outlines of a few pieces of cheap furniture; a sofa, three
or four chairs, a table, and a clumsy writing desk. But the window was
still a square of pale bluish light, cut out of the violet dusk, and as
the y