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He had an absurd feeling of being caught in some web of Fate that clung to him tenaciously, strive as he would. Grant's laugh of careless incredulity pursued him. There had been triumph also in that laugh. No doubt the fellow anticipated a big haul on Rosa Mundi's night. And again there rose before him the memory of young Eric Baron's ardent face.
"I think," said Randal Courteney slowly, "that I shall never despise any one again." "Life is so difficult," said Rosemary, with the air of one who knew. They were strewing the Pier with roses for Rosa Mundi's night. There were garlands of roses, festoons of roses, bouquets of roses; roses overhead, roses under foot, everywhere roses. Summer had returned triumphant to deck the favourite's path.
He put the memory from him and thought of Rosemary the child with the morning light in her eyes, the innocence of the morning in her soul. How tenderly she had spoken of Rosa Mundi! How sweetly she had pleaded her cause! With what amazing intuition had she understood! Something that was greater than pity welled up within him. Rosa Mundi's guardian angel had somehow reached his heart.
The man's face was curiously softened; he looked as if he desired to dry those tears himself. Without looking up she continued. "The mother died very, very soon. Life is like that. Often one pays in vain. There is no bargaining with death. But at least she never knew. That was Rosa Mundi's only comfort. There was no turning back for her then.
"And your name?" he said. She turned out her hands with a little gesture that was utterly unstudied and free from self-consciousness. "My name is Rosemary," she said. "It means remembrance." "You are her adopted child?" Courteney was, looking at her curiously. Out of what part of Rosa Mundi's strange, fretted existence had the desire for remembrance sprung to life?
And so, on Rosa Mundi's night, he went to the great Pavilion, mingling with the crowd, determined when her triumph was over, to seek her out. There would be a good many seekers, he doubted not; but he was convinced that she would not deny him an interview. He secured a seat in the third row, avoiding almost by instinct any more conspicuous position.
"That form of entertainment doesn't appeal to me much," he said. "Now it's your turn to tell me something. I have been wondering about the colour of that sea. Would you call it blue or purple?" She looked, and again the mystery was in her face. For a moment she did not speak. Then, "It is violet," she said "the colour of Rosa Mundi's eyes."
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