“I wish,” Allison was saying, “that people knew how to live up to themselves.  That’s an awkward phrase, but I don’t know of anything better.  Even their names don’t fit ’em, and they get nicknames.”

“‘Father calls me William,’” murmured Rose.

“‘And Mother calls me Will,’” Allison went on.  “That’s it, exactly.  See how the ‘Margarets’ are adjusted to themselves by their friends.  Some are ‘Margie’ and more of ’em are ‘Peggy.’  ‘Margaret’ who is allowed to wear her full name is very rare.”

“I’m glad my name can’t be changed, easily,” she said, thoughtfully.

“It could be ‘Rosie,’ with an ‘ie,’ and if you were that sort, it would be.  Take Aunt Francesca, for instance.  She might be ‘Frances’ or ‘Fanny’ or even ‘Fran,’ but her name suits her, so she gets the full benefit of it, every time.”

Madame turned away from the fire, with the air of one who has been away upon a long journey.  “Did I hear my name?  Did someone speak to me?”

“Only of you,” Allison explained.  “We were talking of names and nicknames and saying that yours suited you.”

“If it didn’t,” observed Madame Bernard, “I’d change it.  When we get civilised, I believe children will go by number until they get old enough to choose their own names.  Fancy a squirming little imp with a terrible temper being saddled with the name of ‘William,’ by authority of Church and State.  Except to his doting parents, he’ll never be anything but ‘Bill.’”

“Does my name fit me?” queried Isabel, much interested.

“It would,” said Allison, “if you weren’t quite so tall.  Does my name fit me?”

He spoke to Madame Bernard but he looked at Rose.  It was the older woman who answered him.  “Yes, of course it does.  How dare you ask me that when I named you myself?”

“I’d forgotten,” Allison laughed.  “I can’t remember quite that far back.”

They began to play once more and Isabel, pleading a headache, said good-night.  She made her farewells very prettily and there was a moment’s silence after the door closed.

“I’m afraid,” said Madame, “that our little girl is lonely.  Allison, can’t you bestir yourself and find some young men to call upon her?  I can’t think of anybody but the Crosby twins.”

“What’s the matter with me?” inquired Allison, lightly.  “Am I not calling?  And behold, I give her a headache and she goes to bed.”

“You’re not exactly in her phase of youth,” Madame objected.  “She’s my guest and she has to be entertained.”

“I’m willing to do my share.  I’ll take her into town to the theatre some night, and to supper afterward, in the most brilliantly lighted place I can find.”

“That’s very nice of you,” responded Rose, with a look of friendly appreciation.  “I know she would enjoy the bright lights.”

“We all do, in certain moods,” he said.  “Are you ready now?”

The voice of the violin rose to heights of ecstasy, sustained by full chords in the accompaniment.  Mingled with the joy of it, like a breath of sadness and longing, was a theme in minor, full of question and heartbreak; of appeal that was almost prayer.  And over it all, as always, hovering like some far light, was the call to which Rose answered.  Dumbly, she knew that she must always answer it, though she were dead and the violin itself mingled with her dust.