there were no “draperies.”  Overmantels, “cosy-corners,” flung Indian shawls, “pieces” snatched from bazaars, and “carelessly” hung over pedestals and divans found no favor in Rosamund’s eyes.  There was a good deal of homely chintz about which lit up the rather old-fashioned rooms, and colors throughout the house were rather soft than hard, were never emphatic or designed to startle or impress.

Rosamund, indeed, was by far the most vivid thing in the house, and some people—­not males—­said she had taken care to supply for herself a background which would “throw her up.”  These people, if they believed what they said, did not know her.

She had on the first floor a little sitting-room all to herself; in this were now to be found the books which had been in her bedroom in Great Cumberland Place; the charwoman’s black tray with the cabbage rose, the mug from Greenwich, the flesh-colored vase, the china cow, the toy trombone, and other souvenirs of her girlhood to which Rosamund “held.”  On the brass-railed shelf of the writing-table stood a fine photogravure of the Hermes of Olympia with little Dionysos on his arm.  Very often, many times every day, Rosamund looked up at Hermes and the Child from account books, letters or notes, and then the green dream of Elis fell about her softly again; and sometimes she gazed beyond the Hermes, but instead of the wall of the chamber she saw, set in an oblong frame, and bathed in green twilight, a bit of the world of Pan, with a branch of wild olive flickering across the foreground; or, now and then, she saw a falling star, dropping from its place in the sky down towards a green wilderness, and carrying a wish from her with it, a wish that was surely soon to be granted.  Her life in the little house had been a happy life hitherto, but—­she looked again at the little Dionysos on the arm of Hermes, nestling against his shoulder—­how much happier it was going to be, how much happier!  She was not surprised, for deep in her heart she always expected happiness.

People had been delightful to her and to Dion.  Indeed, they had flocked to the small green door (the Elis door) of 5 Little Market Street in almost embarrassing numbers.  That was partly Mr. Darlington’s fault.  Naturally Rosamund’s and Bruce Evelin’s friends came; and of course Dion’s relations and friends came.  That would really have been enough.  Rosamund enjoyed, but was not at all “mad about,” society, and had no wish to give up the greater part of her time to paying calls.  But Mr. Darlington could not forbear from kind efforts on behalf of his delightful young friends, that gifted and beautiful creature Rosamund Leith, and her pleasant young husband.  He, who found time for everything, found time to give more than one “little party, just a few friends, no more,” specially for them; and the end of it was that they found themselves acquainted with almost too many interesting and delightful people.