“Carl,” she said, “I have a secret for you.  But you must tell no one.”  She laughed mischievously.

“What is it?” I answered, calmly smiling.

“It is that I love you,” and she buried her face against my shoulder.

“Tell me that again,” I said, “and again and again.”

And so under the tall rustling trees we exchanged vows—­vows made more sacred by the bitterness of our experience.  And then at last, much to the driver’s satisfaction, we returned to the carriage, and were driven back to the Rue de Rivoli.  I gave the man a twenty-franc piece; certainly the hour was unconscionably late.

I bade good night, a reluctant good night, to Rosa at the entrance to her flat.

“Dearest girl,” I said, “let us go to England to-morrow.  You are almost English, you know; soon you will be the wife of an Englishman, and there is no place like London.”

“True,” she answered.  “There is no place like London.  We’ll go.  The Opera Comique will manage without me.  And I will accept no more engagements for a very, very long time.  Money doesn’t matter.  You have enough, and I—­oh, Carl, I’ve got stacks and piles of it.  It’s so easy, if you have a certain sort of throat like mine, to make more money than you can spend.”

“Yes,” I said.  “We will have a holiday, after we are married, and that will be in a fortnight’s time.  We will go to Devonshire, where the heather is.  But, my child, you will be wanting to sing again soon.  It is your life.”

“No,” she replied, “you are my life, aren’t you?” And, after a pause:  “But perhaps singing is part of my life, too.  Yes, I shall sing.”

Then I left her for that night, and walked slowly back to my hotel.

The end.