She was still in her riding habit when I found her alone in the parlour of the Titus suite1.
I give you my word my heart almost stopped beating. I've never seen any one so lovely as she was at that moment. Never, I repeat. Her hair, blown by the kind November winds, strayed—but no! I cannot begin to define the loveliness of her. There was a warm, rich glow in her cheeks and a light in her eyes that actually bewildered me, and more than that I am not competent to utter.
"You have come at last," she said, and her voice sounded very far off; although I was lifting her ungloved hand to my lips. She clenched2 my fingers tightly, I remember that; and also that my hand shook violently and that my face felt pale.
I think I said that I had come at last. She took my other hand in hers and drawing dangerously close to me said:
"I do not expect to be married for at least a year, John."
"I—I congratulate you," I stammered3 foolishly.
"I have a feeling that it isn't decent for one to marry inside of two years after one has been divorced."
"How is Rosemary?" I murmured.
"You are in love with me, aren't you, John, dear?"
"Goo—good heaven!" I gasped4.
"I know you are. That's why I am so sure of myself. Is it asking too much of you to marry me in a year from—"
I haven't the faintest notion how long afterward5 it was that I asked her what was to become of that poor, unlucky devil, Lord Amberdale.
"He isn't a devil. He's a dear, and he is going to marry a bred-in-the-bone countess next January. You will like him, because he is every bit as much in love with his real countess are you are with a sham6 one. He is a bird of your feather. And now don't you want to come with me to see Rosemary?"
"Rosemary," I murmured, as in a dream—a luxurious7 lotus-born dream.
She took my arm and advanced with me into a room adjoining the parlour. As we passed through the door, she suddenly squeezed my arm very tightly and laid her head against my shoulder.
We were in a small sitting-room............