“They’re the ladies Angel lent the money to, because she was so sorry for them,” said Rosemary.  “I’ve heard them talking about it with her, and saying they can’t pay it back.  They’re angry with her for asking, but she had to, you see.  When they go past us in the dining-room they turn their backs.”

Hugh’s attention was arrested now.

“Do they dine?” he asked.  “Every night?”

“Oh yes, always.  Mademoiselle has lovely dresses.  She is pretty, but the Comtesse is such an ugly old lady; like Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, I think.  I’m afraid of her.  Jane says her Madame and Monsieur don’t believe she’s really a Comtesse.  I had to knock at her door with a letter from Angel to-day, for Angel doesn’t know I’m afraid.  I couldn’t help being glad Madame wouldn’t let me in, for it seemed as if she might eat me up.  I knocked and knocked, and when I was going away, I saw Mademoiselle coming in, in a pink dress with a rosy hat.”

“I think she’ll pay your mother back to-morrow,” said Hugh, remembering the fatness of the pink bag.

“She didn’t say she would.  She was so cross with me that she called me a petit bete, and snatched the letter out of my hand.”

At this, Hugh’s face grew suddenly hot and red, and he muttered something under his 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.”