Rosemary did not condescend to tell him that nothing would ever induce her to live in his house.  She let him go striding back to the Glen, oozing delight and complacency, and she walked slowly up the hill home.  She had known this was coming ever since she had returned from Kingsport, and found Norman Douglas established as a frequent evening caller.  His name was never mentioned between her and Ellen, but the very avoidance of it was significant.  It was not in Rosemary’s nature to feel bitter, or she would have felt very bitter.  She was coldly civil to Norman, and she made no difference in any way with Ellen.  But Ellen had not found much comfort in her second courtship.

She was in the garden, attended by St. George, when Rosemary came home.  The two sisters met in the dahlia walk.  St. George sat down on the gravel walk between them and folded his glossy black tail gracefully around his white paws, with all the indifference of a well-fed, well-bred, well-groomed cat.

“Did you ever see such dahlias?” demanded Ellen proudly.  “They are just the finest we’ve ever had.”

Rosemary had never cared for dahlias.  Their presence in the garden was her concession to Ellen’s taste.  She noticed one huge mottled one of crimson and yellow that lorded it over all the others.

“That dahlia,” she said, pointing to it, “is exactly like Norman Douglas.  It might easily be his twin brother.”

Ellen’s dark-browed face flushed.  She admired the dahlia in question, but she knew Rosemary did not, and that no compliment was intended.  But she dared not resent Rosemary’s speech—­poor Ellen dared not resent anything just then.  And it was the first time Rosemary had ever mentioned Norman’s name to her.  She felt that this portended something.

“I met Norman Douglas in the valley,” said Rosemary, looking straight at her sister, “and he told me you and he wanted to be married—­if I would give you permission.”

“Yes?  What did you say?” asked Ellen, trying to speak naturally and off-handedly, and failing completely.  She could not meet Rosemary’s eyes.  She looked down at St. George’s sleek back and felt horribly afraid.  Rosemary had either said she would or she wouldn’t.  If she would Ellen would feel so ashamed and remorseful that she would be a very uncomfortable bride-elect; and if she wouldn’t—­well, Ellen had once learned to live without Norman Douglas, but she had forgotten the lesson and felt that she could never learn it again.

“I said that as far as I was concerned you were at full liberty to marry each other as soon as you liked,” said Rosemary.

“Thank you,” said Ellen, still looking at St. George.

Rosemary’s face softened.

“I hope you’ll be happy, Ellen,” she said gently.

“Oh, Rosemary,” Ellen looked up in distress, “I’m so ashamed—­I don’t deserve it—­after all I said to you—­”

“We won’t speak about that,” said Rosemary hurriedly and decidedly.