Rosemary opened a door on the fourth floor, and for a moment the twilight on the other side was shot for Hugh with red and purple spots.  But the colours faded when the childish voice said, “Angel isn’t here.  If you’ll come in, I’ll go and see if she’s in our room.”

“Don’t tell her—­don’t say—­anything about a fairy father,” he stammered.

“Oh no, that’s to be the surprise,” Rosemary reassured him, as she pattered away.

It was deep twilight in the room, and rather cold, for the eucalyptus and olive logs in the fireplace still awaited the match.  Hugh could see the blurred outlines of a few pieces of cheap furniture; a sofa, three or four chairs, a table, and a clumsy writing desk.  But the window was still a square of pale bluish light, cut out of the violet dusk, and as the young man’s eyes accustomed themselves to the dimness, the room did not seem dark.

He was not left alone for long.  In two or three minutes Rosemary appeared once more, without her hat and coat, to say that “Angel” had not yet come back.  “But she’ll soon be here now,” went on the child.  “Do you mind waiting in the twilight, fairy father?  The electric light doesn’t come on till after five, and I’ve just heard the clock downstairs strike five.”

“I shall like it,” answered Hugh, glad that his face should be hidden by the dusk, in these moments of waiting.

“Angel tells me stories in the twilight,” said Rosemary, as he sat down on the sofa by the cold fireplace, and she let him lift her light little body to his knee.  “Would you tell me one, about when you were lost?”

“I’ll try,” Hugh said.  “Let me think, what story shall I tell?”

“I won’t speak while you’re remembering,” Rosemary promised, leaning her head confidingly against his shoulder.  “I always keep quiet, while Angel puts on her thinking cap.”

Hugh laughed, and was silent.  But his head was too hot to wear a thinking cap, and no story would come at his half-hearted call.

Rosemary waited in patience for him to begin.  “One, two, three,” she counted under her breath; for she had learned to count up to fifty, and it was good practice when one wished to make the time pass.  She had just come to forty-nine, and was wondering if she might remind the fairy father of his duty, when the door opened.

It was Angel, of course; but Angel did not come in.  She stopped on the threshold, talking to somebody, or rather somebody was talking to her.  Rosemary could not see the person, but she recognised the voice.  It was that of Mademoiselle de Lavalette.

“You are not to write my mother letters, and trouble us about that money, madame,” said the voice, as shrill now as it could be sweet.  “Once for all, I will not have it.  I have followed you to tell you this.  You will be paid soon; that is enough.  I am engaged to be married to a rich man, an American.  He will be glad to pay all our debts by and by; but meantime, madame, you are to let us alone.”