dered? But no, he was sure she had not. She would care
for nothing until the bloom faded. Then, indeed, possibly, remorse might
come.

Someone passing his table paused and spoke--the managing director of the
Hurley Bay Theatre and of a score of others, a man he knew slightly,
older than himself. "The hive swarms in vain," he said. "The queen
refuses to emerge."

Courteney's expression was supremely cynical. "I was not aware that she
was of such a retiring disposition," he said.

The other man laughed. He was an American, Ellis Grant by name, a man of
gross proportions, but keen-eyed, iron-jawed, and successful. "There is
a rumour," he said, "that she is about to be married. Possibly that
might account for her shyness."

His look was critical. Courteney threw back his head almost with
defiance. "It doesn't interest me," he said curtly.

Ellis Grant laughed again and passed on. He valued his acquaintanceship
with the writer. He would not jeopardize it with over-much familiarity.
But he did not believe in the utter lack of interest that he professed.
No living man who knew her could be wholly indifferent to the doings of
Rosa Mundi. The fiery charm of her, her passionate vitality, made that
impossible.

Courteney finished his dinner and went out. The night was almost as hot
as the day had been. He turned his back on the Pier, that was lighted
from end to end, and walked away down the long parade.

He was beginning to wish himself out of the place. He had an absurd
feeling of being caught in some web of Fate that clung to him
tenaciously, strive as he would. Grant's laugh of careless incredulity
pursued him. There had been triumph also in that laugh. No doubt the
fellow anticipated a big haul on Rosa Mundi's night.

And again there rose before him the memory of young Eric Baron's ardent
face. "I'd marry her to-morrow if she'd have me," the boy had said to
him once.

The boy had been a fool, but straight. The woman--well, the woman was
not the marrying sort. He was certain of that. She was elusive as a
flame. Impatiently yet again he flung the thought of her from him. What
did it matter to him? Why should he be haunted by her thus? He would not
suffer it.

He tramped to the end of the parade and stood looking out over the dark
sea. He was sorry for that adopted child of hers. That face of innocence
rose before him clear against the gathering dark. Not much chance for
the child, it seemed! Utterly unspoilt and un