Madame Bernard, still seated by the fire, stirred uneasily.  Something had come into her house that vaguely troubled her, because she had no part in it.  The air throbbed with something vital, keen, alive; the room trembled as from invisible wings imprisoned.

Old dreams and memories came back with a rush, and the little old lady sitting in the half light looked strangely broken and frail.  The sound of marching and the steady beat of a drum vibrated through her consciousness and the singing violin was faint and far.  She saw again the dusty street, where the blue column went forward with her Captain at the head, his face stern and cold, grimly set to some high Purpose that meant only anguish for her.  The picture above the mantel, seen dimly through a mist, typified, to her, the ways of men and women since the world began—­the young knight riding forward in his quest for the Grail, already forgetting what lay behind, while the woman knelt, waiting, waiting, waiting, as women always have and always must.

At last the music reached its end in a low chord that was at once a question and a call.  Madame rose, about to say good-night, and go up-stairs where she might be alone.  On the instant she paused.  Her heart waited almost imperceptibly, then resumed its beat.

Still holding the violin, Allison was looking at Rose.  Subconsciously, Madame noted his tall straight figure, his broad well-set shoulders, his boyish face, and his big brown eyes.  But Rose had illumined as from some inward light; her lovely face was transfigured into a beauty beyond all words.

Francesca slipped out without speaking and went, unheard, to her own room.  She felt guilty because she had discerned something of which Rose herself was as yet entirely unconscious.  With the instinctive sex-loyalty that distinguishes fine women from the other sort, Madame hoped that Allison did not know.

“And so,” she said to herself, “Love has come back to my house, after many years of absence.  I wonder if he cares?  He must, oh, he must!” Francesca had no selfish thought of her own loneliness, if her Rose should go away.  Though her own heart was forever in the keeping of a distant grave, she could still be glad of another’s joy.

Rose turned away from the piano and Allison put his violin into the case.  “It’s late,” he said, regretfully, “and you must be tired.”

“Perhaps I am, but I don’t know it.”

“You respond so fully to the music that it is a great pleasure to play with you.  I wish I could always have you as my accompanist.”

“I do, too,” murmured Rose, turning her face away.  The deep colour mounted to the roots of her hair and he studied her impersonally, as he would have studied any other lovely thing.

“Why?” he began, then laughed.

“Why what?” asked Rose, quickly.

“I was about to ask you a very foolish question.”

“Don’t hesitate,” she said.  “Most questions are foolish.”