The sofa on which they sat was between the two windows.  She reclined in the easy chair in the corner between the right-hand window and the door of her room.  She was so near them that she might have touched the sofa by stretching out her hand.

Without dreaming of harm, she overheard their conversation.

Mr. Fabian was the first to speak.

“I say, Rose,” he began, “I have a deuce of a hard time to get a tete-a-tete with you.  This is the first we have had for two months.”

“And we could not have had this but for the accidental arrangement of these convenient rooms,” she whispered.

“Exactly.  We must arrange for future plans to-night.  I understand that the old folks have been trying to persuade you to return home with us?”

“Yes; but, of course, I shall not go.”

“Of course not; but how did you get out of it?”

“Oh, by raising the old gentleman.”

“Do you mean the—­the—­the—­de—­”

“Certainly not.  I mean my husband, the gallant Captain Stillwater, of the East Indiaman Queen of Sheba, who has been spoken within three days’ sail of port, and is expected here every hour.  So that, you see, I must remain here to welcome my husband.  It is my sacred duty,” said the woman demurely.

“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Mr. Fabian, in a low, half-suppressed chuckle.

“Hush!  Oh, be careful!  You will be heard!” murmured Rose Stillwater, in a frightened whisper.

“What! at this hour?  Why, everybody in this suite is in his or her deepest sleep.  I say, Rosebud.”

“What?”

“His Majesty the King of the Cumberland Mines has been in a demoniac humor ever since he learned that you were not coming home with us.”

“I know it, and I am very sorry for it, especially on his family’s account, but I could not help it.”

“Certainly not.  It would have been inconvenient and embarrassing.  Look here, Rosalie.”

“Well?”

“If the aged monarch was not such a perfect dragon of truth, honesty and fidelity, and all the cast-iron virtues, I should think that he was over head and ears in love with you.”

“Nonsense, Fabian!  Mr. Rockharrt is old enough to be my grandfather, and his hair is quite gray.”

“If he were old enough to be your great-grandfather, and his hair was quite white, it need make no difference in that respect, my dear.  The fires of Mt.  Hecla burn beneath eternal snows.”

“What rubbish you are talking, Fabian!  But—­to change the subject—­when will my house be ready?  I warn you that I will not go back to that brick block on Main Street in your State capital.”

“You should not, Rosebella.  Your home is finished and furnished; and a lovelier bower of roses cannot be found out of paradise!  It is simply perfection, or it will be when you take possession of it.”

“Yes; tell me all about it,” whispered the lady, eagerly.