Madame Francesca, loving Rose dearly, became sorely troubled and perplexed.  She could not fail to see and understand, and, at times, feared that Allison and Isabel must see and understand also.  She watched Rose faithfully and shielded her at every possible point.  When Isabel inquired why Rose was always tired in the evening, Madame explained that she had been working too hard and that she had made her promise to rest.

Rose spent more time than usual at the piano but she neglected her own work in favour of Allison’s accompaniments.  When she was alone, she could play them creditably, even without the notes, but if, by any chance, he stood beside her, waiting until the prelude was finished, she faltered at the first sound of the violin.

At last she gave it up and kept more and more to her own room.  Madame meditated upon the advisability of sending Isabel away, providing it could be done gracefully, or even taking her on some brief journey, thus leaving Rose in full possession of the house.

Yet, in her heart, she knew that it would be only a subterfuge; that it was better to meet the issues of Life squarely than to attempt to hide from them, since inevitably all must be met.  She could not bear to see Rose hurt, nor could she endure easily the spectacle of her beloved foster son upon the verge of a lifelong mistake.  Several times she thought of talking to Colonel Kent, and, more rarely, of speaking to Allison himself, but she had learned to apply to speech the old maxim referring to letter-writing:  “When in doubt, don’t.”

It happened that Allison came late one afternoon, when Isabel had gone to town in search of new finery and Rose was in her own room.  Madame had just risen from her afternoon nap, and, after he had waited a few moments, she came down.

“Where’s Isabel?” he asked, as he greeted her.

“Shopping,” smiled Madame.

“I know, but I thought she’d be at home by this time.  She told me she was coming out on the earlier train.”

“She may have met someone and gone to the matinee.  It’s Wednesday.”

“She didn’t need to do that.  I’ll take her whenever she wants to go and she knows it.”

“I didn’t say she had gone—­I only said she might have gone.  She may be waiting for the trimming of a hat to be changed, or for an appointment with tailor or dressmaker or manicure, or any one of a thousand other things.  When you see her, she can doubtless give a clear account of herself.”

“Did Rose go with her?” he asked, after a brief pause.

“No, she’s asleep,” sighed Madame.  “Allison, I’m worried about Rose and have been for some time.  She isn’t well.”

“I thought something was wrong,” he replied, without interest.  “She can’t seem to play even the simplest accompaniment any more, and she used to do wonders, even with heavy work.”

“I think,” ventured Madame, cautiously, “that she needs to get out more.  If someone would take her for a walk or a drive every day, it would do her good.”