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Barnes, nee Rachael Jerryl, had a summer place several miles from Redgate. "We went there day before yesterday," she answered shortly. "I'm sure they'd be glad to see us." He felt that that was not a strong enough note, braced himself stubbornly, and added: "I want to see the Barneses. I haven't any desire to go home." "Well, I haven't any desire to go to the Barneses."
"We haven't even that, most of the time," cried Gloria. "When haven't we?" "A lot of times beginning with one occasion on the station platform at Redgate." "You don't mean to say that " "No," she interrupted coolly, "I don't brood over it. It came and went and when it went it took something with it." She finished abruptly. Anthony sat in silence, confused, depressed.
Meanwhile he sat with a pen, a penny bottle of ink and an exercise book and did what he could. At the end of the fortnight he had written "The Sea Road," an essay for which Robert Louis Stevenson was largely responsible, "The Redgate Mill," a story of the fantastic, terrible kind, "Stones for Bread," moralising on Bucket Lane, and the "Red-Haired Boy," a somewhat bitter reminiscence of Dawson's.
Never since the incident on the station platform at Redgate had he laid his hands on her in anger though he was withheld often only by some instinct that itself made him tremble with rage. Just as he still cared more for her than for any other creature, so did he more intensely and frequently hate her.
There is romance of love, mystery, plot, and fighting, and a breathless dash and go about the telling which makes one quite forget about the improbabilities of the story; and it all ends in the old-fashioned healthy American way. Shirley is a sweet, courageous heroine whose shining eyes lure from page to page. ROSALIND AT REDGATE. Illustrated by Arthur I. Keller.
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