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Updated: June 4, 2025
He should not, certainly, have mentioned the war. He wondered desperately what a fine and delicate being like Rosemary Roselle talked about? It would be wise to avoid serious and immediate considerations for commonplaces. "Ellik McCosh," he said, "a girl in our village who went to Boston, learned to dance, and when she came back she taught two or three.
Elim hadn't noticed anything reprehensible in the wind. It appeared that for a considerable time there hadn't been any. A capful was stirring now, and humanity ever discontented silently cursed that. "We're nearly there," he said, returning to Rosemary Roselle. He was unable to gather any intelligence from her expression.
"Did Miss Roselle send for me?" "No, sir, she didn't. Miss Rosemary she wouldn't send for you, not if you were the last man alive. I'm telling you to come down to the dining room.... We've tended you and " "Well," he demanded impatiently, "what do you want; whom shall I shoot?" "You'll see, quick enough. And I can't stand here talking either; I've got to go back.
And, before the latter could object, the colored woman hurried from the room. Silence enveloped the two at the table. Elim replaced his revolver in its belt. He had never before studied a girl like Rosemary Roselle; fine white frills fell about her elbows from under the black short sleeves. Her skin was incredibly smooth and white.
Roselle was on the stage, in the beauty chorus, looking magnificent, and her eyes were sweeping the stalls. They paused here and there in their saucy habit, lingering upon more than one man with one of her tiny inscrutable smiles winging a message, but their search continued until at last she had found Osborn Kerr sitting on the lefthand side in the third row.
He knew the smile well, although he had never translated it so far as to guess that it covered stupidity in a sphinx's mask that baffled and piqued. That smile was of sterling value to Roselle; it was like so many pounds paid regularly into her pocket; it set men wondering what her meaning was when all the while she meant nothing.
Rosemary Roselle lightly left the boat, and Elim followed. "If we explored," he proposed, "perhaps we could get you a cup of coffee." She elected, however, to stay by the river, and Elim went inward alone. Beyond the willows was an empty marshland. The old man had disappeared, with no trace of his objective kin.
We can't stand our wives forsaking us. We ask a lot of you, I suppose. Yes, it's a lot." "Well," she murmured, "we've always got it to give. We're made that way." "Not all of you," he denied, with a fleeting thought of Roselle. "Tell me," Marie asked, "what were you and she talking of so earnestly when I came in? It won't matter anyway but I'm just curious to know." "Shall I tell you?"
Beyond the wharf the great yellow flood of the river gleamed in the sun; choirs of robins whistled in trees faintly green. Rosemary Roselle was seated with her feet hanging over the water. "Champagne for breakfast," she observed, shaking her head; "only the most habitual sports manage that."
He added therefore a postscript to his letter to his wife, an addition written in a sudden thrust of pathos, a want of her almost like the old want: "I wonder if you've missed me, old girl." In the trash he felt, though he had not given the idea the form of a thought, that Roselle Dates was included.
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