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"You let the capt'n do what he says," the woman urged. Rosemary Roselle's eyes turned toward Elim; it was, seemingly, the first time she had become aware of his presence. She said in a voice delicately colored by hate: "Thank you, I couldn't think of taking the the orderly from his conquests." "Then I'll find your father myself," Elim replied.
Rosemary Roselle's upright figure gradually sank. He realized that she was asleep on her arm. Elim bent forward shamelessly and studied her worn countenance. There was a trace of tears on her cheek. She was as delicate, as helpless as a flower sleeping on its stalk.
The withdrawn banks bore clustered trees, undulating green reached inland, the shaded facades of houses sat back on lawns that dipped to the stream. Rosemary Roselle's face was pale with fatigue; her eyes appeared preternaturally large; and this, for Elim, made her charm infinitely more appealing. She smoothed her dress, touched her hair with light fingers. The intimacy of it all thrilled him.
It's one of Marjorie's! "Huh!" says I. "Met her at Mrs. Astor's, I expect?" Skeet shuffles his feet and tries to look indignant. "Come on, give us the plot of the piece," says I, "or I'll call up Sister Maggie and put her on the stand. Where was it, now?" "If you must know," says Skeet sulky, "it was at Roselle's." "The tango factory?" says I. "Oh, I'm beginnin' to get the thread.
So he went to the Bon Marché to look for a gift for Marie, not knowing where else to look, and he bought her any trifle that he could imagine Roselle's teaching was useful here, little chiffon collars, and a glittering hair-band ornament that he thought looked very French, and handkerchiefs, and a pair of silk stockings, and garters with great big fluffy pompoms on them.
Outside the doors hung a big frame of photographs of the entire cast of Sautree's new production, and he paused to look, absent-minded as he was, with male interest in that galaxy of charm. In the second row of faces he met Roselle's. She photographed well, her big, smooth shoulders bare, her hair smooth and smart, her chin uptilted so that she looked out, foreshortened. She smiled inscrutably.
Her mouth, with its slightly full under lip, was elevated, and an outrageous desire possessed him. His countenance slowly turned hotly red, and slowly a faint tide of color stained Rosemary Roselle's cheeks. She looked away; Elim looked away. He proceeded aft and learned that Bramant's Wharf lay only a few miles ahead. The old man cursed the wind in his stringent tones.
He resolutely addressed himself to the judgment of Rosemary Roselle's second paper, his lighter thoughts drowned in the ascending dark tide of his temperament It was called Our Waitress, and an instant antagonism for the entire South and its people swept over him. He saw that the essay's subject was a negro, a slave; and all his impassioned detestation of the latter term possessed him.
It dropped like a trickle of cold water into his excitement and desire. He took Roselle's arm lightly in his hand, and turned about. "I must take you to tea somewhere," he said; "where shall we go?" In a shaded tea room, full of screens, rose-lights and china tinkling, he sat looking at her.
"My God!" said Osborn resignedly, as he tore the letter across. "Marriage is a big mistake. To tie oneself up for life at twenty-seven...!" Osborn was in Chicago, prospering exceedingly, when Roselle's second letter came. She was in the same city! He hurried to her without a moment's loss. She was staying at a boarding-house full of noisy young business people, among whom she was a sensation.
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