I felt that I was mad to think of it.  Yet she made me think of it.  It was what she wanted.  She was not in the least unwomanly, but she was very modern in her frank expression of the pleasure she felt in my companionship.

“Oh, what would I do without you, Jim Crow?” was the way she put it.

I grew young in my months of association with her.  I had danced a little in my college days, but I had given it up.  She taught me the new steps—­and we would set the phonograph going and take up the rugs.

When I grew expert we danced together at the country club and at some of the smart places down-town.  It was all very delightful.  I made up my mind that I should marry her.

I planned to ask her on Christmas Eve.  I had a present for her, an emerald set in antique silver with seed pearls.  It was hung on a black ribbon, and I could fancy it shining against the background of her velvet smock.  I carried flowers, too, and a book.  I was keen with anticipation.  The years seemed to drop from me.  I was a boy of twenty going to meet the lady of my first romance.

When I arrived at the bungalow I found that Rosalie had with her the old great-aunt and uncle who had been with her when we first met in Maine.  They had come on for Christmas unexpectedly, anticipating an eager welcome, happy in their sense of surprise.

Rosalie, when we had a moment alone, expressed her dismay.

“They are going to stay until to-morrow night, Jim Crow.  And I haven’t planned any Christmas dinner.”

“We’ll take them to the country club.”

“How heavenly of you to think of it!”

I gave her the flowers and the book.  But I kept the jewel for the high moment when I should ask her for a greater gift in exchange.

But the high moment did not come that night.  The old uncle and aunt sat up with us.  They had much to talk about.  They were a comfortable pair—­silver-haired and happy in each other—­going toward the end of the journey hand in hand.

The old man went to the door with me when I left, and we stood for a moment under the stars.

“Mother and I miss hanging up the stockings for the kiddies,” he said.

“Were there many kiddies?”

“Three.  Two dead and one married and out West.  Rosalie seemed the nearest that we had, and that’s why we came.  I thought mother might be lonely in our big old house.”

The next day at the country club the old gentleman was genial but slightly garrulous.  The old lady talked about her children and her Christmas memories.  I saw that Rosalie was frankly bored.

As for myself, I was impatient for my high moment.

But I think I gave the old folks a good time and that they missed nothing in my manner.  And, indeed, I think that they missed nothing in Rosalie’s.  They had the gentle complacency of the aged who bask in their own content.

It was toward the end of dinner that I caught a look in Rosalie’s eyes which almost made my heart stop beating.  I had not seen it since Perry’s death.  I had seen it first when she had stood in the door of his room on the night that I tucked him up in bed and gave him the hot oysters.  It was that look of distaste—­that delicate shrinking from an unpleasant spectacle.