“I won’t,” said the girl hastily.  “Oh, I won’t, I won’t, Kathleen, darling.  I do know it’s in me—­I feel that if I ever let myself go I could be reckless and wicked.  But truly, truly, I won’t.  I—­darling, you mustn’t cry—­please, don’t—­because you are making me cry.  I cried in my sleep, too....  I ought to be very happy—­” She forced a laugh through the bright tears fringing her lashes, bent forward swiftly, kissed Kathleen, and sprang from the bed.

“I want my bath and breakfast!” she cried.  “If I’m to be a Louis XVI doll this week, it’s time my face was washed and my sawdust reinforced.  Do fix my tray, dear, while I’m in the bath—­and ring for my maid....  And when you go down you may tell Duane to wait for me on the stairs.  It’s good discipline; he’ll find it stupid because I’ll be a long time—­but, oh, Kathleen, it is perfectly heavenly to bully him!”

* * * * *

Later she sent a note to him by her maid: 

“TO THE ONLY MAN IN THE WORLD,
ON THE STAIRS.

“Patient Sir:  If you will go to the large beech-tree beyond Hurryon Gate and busy yourself by carving upon it certain initials intertwined within the circumscribed outlines of a symbol popularly supposed to represent a human heart, your industry will be presently and miraculously rewarded by the apparition of her who presumably occupies no inconsiderable place in your affections.”

At the Hurryon Gate Duane found Rosalie trying to unlock it, a dainty, smiling Rosalie, fresh as a blossom, and absurdly like a schoolgirl with her low-cut collar, snowy neck, and the thick braid of hair.  Under her arm she carried her bathing-dress.

“I’m going for a swim; I nearly perished with the heat last night....  Did you sleep well, Duane?”

“Rather well.”

She hesitated, looked up:  “Are you coming with me?”

“I have an appointment.”

“Oh!...  Are you going to let me go alone?”

He laughed:  “I’ve no choice; I really have an appointment this morning.”

She inspected him, drew a step nearer, laid both hands lightly on his shoulders.

“Duane, dear,” she said, “are you really going to let me drift past you out to sea—­after all?”

“What else can I do?  Besides, you are not going to drift.”

“Yes, I am.  You were very nice to me yesterday.”

“It was you who were very sweet to me....  But I told you how matters stand.  You care for your husband.”

“Yes, you did tell me.  But it is not true.  I thought about it all night long; I find that I do not care for him—­as you told me I did.”

He said, smiling:  “Nor do you really care for me.”

“I could care.”

Her hands still lay lightly on his shoulders; he smilingly disengaged them, saluted the finger tips, and swung them free.

“No, you couldn’t,” he said—­“nor could I.”