“Then we must begin immediately.  Write out everything you think of, and afterward we’ll go over the list together.  Come into the library and begin now.  There’s no time like the present.”

“Do you think,” Isabel inquired as she seated herself at the library table, “that I will have many presents?”

“Probably,” answered Madame, briefly.  “I’ll come back when you’ve finished your list.”

She went up-stairs and knocked gently at the door of Rose’s room, feeling very much as she did the day she went to Colonel Kent to tell him that the little mother of his new-born son was dead.  Rose herself opened the door, somewhat surprised.

Madame went in, closed the door, then stood there for a moment, at a loss for words.

“Has it come?” asked Rose, in a low voice.

“Yes.  Oh, Rose, my dear Rose!”

She put her arm around the younger woman and led her to the couch.  Every hint of colour faded from Rose’s face; her eyes were wide and staring, her lips scarcely pink.  “I must go away,” she murmured.

“Where, dearest?”

“Anywhere—­oh, anywhere!”

“I know, dear, believe me, I know, but it never does any good to run away from things that must be faced sooner or later.  We women have our battles to fight as well as the men who go to war, and the same truth applies to both—­that only a coward will retreat under fire.”

Rose sighed and clenched her hands together tightly.

“Once there was a ship,” said Madame, softly, “sinking in mid-ocean, surrounded by fog.  It had drifted far out of its course, and collided with a derelict.  The captain ordered the band to play, the officers put on their dress uniforms and their white gloves.  Another ship, that was drifting, too, signalled in answer to the music, and all were saved.”

“That was possible—­but there can be no signal for me.”

“Perhaps not, but let’s put on our white gloves and order out the band.”

The unconscious plural struck Rose with deep significance.  “Did you—­ know, Aunt Francesca?”

“Yes, dear.”

“For how long?”

“Always, I think.”

“Did it seem—­absurd, in any way?”

“Not at all.  I was hoping for it, until the wind changed.  And,” she added, with her face turned away, “Colonel Kent was, too.”

Some of the colour ebbed slowly back into the white, stricken face.  “That makes me feel,” Rose breathed, “as if I hadn’t been quite so foolish as I’ve been thinking I was.”

“Then keep the high heart, dear, for they mustn’t suspect.”

“No,” cried Rose sharply, “oh, no!  Anything but that!”

“It’s hard to wear gloves when you don’t want to,” replied Madame, with seeming irrelevance, “but it’s easier when there are others.  The Colonel will need them, too—­this is going to be hard on him.”

“Does-he—­know?” whispered Rose, fearfully.