"You are Randal Courteney, the
writer. It's not a bit of good trying to hide, because everybody knows."
He attempted a frown, but failed in its achievement. "And who are you?"
he said, looking straight into the daring, trusting eyes. She was, not
beautiful, but her eyes were wonderful; they held a mystery that
beckoned and eluded in the same subtle moment.
"I?" she said. "I am her companion, her familiar spirit. Sometimes she
calls me her angel."
The man moved as if something had stung him, but he checked himself with
instinctive self-control. "And your name?" he said.
She turned out her hands with a little gesture that was utterly
unstudied and free from self-consciousness. "My name is Rosemary," she
said. "It means--remembrance."
"You are her adopted child?" Courteney was, looking at her curiously.
Out of what part of Rosa Mundi's strange, fretted existence had the
desire for remembrance sprung to life? He had deemed her a woman of many
episodes, each forgotten as its successor took its place. Yet it seemed
this child held a corner in her memory that was to last.
She turned her face to the sun. "We have adopted each other," she said
naively.
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