The boy had been a fool, but straight. The woman--well, the woman was
not the marrying sort. He was certain of that. She was elusive as a
flame. Impatiently yet again he flung the thought of her from him. What
did it matter to him? Why should he be haunted by her thus? He would not
suffer it.
He tramped to the end of the parade and stood looking out over the dark
sea. He was sorry for that adopted child of hers. That face of innocence
rose before him clear against the gathering dark. Not much chance for
the child, it seemed! Utterly unspoilt and unsophisticated at present,
and the property of that _demi-mondaine_! He wondered if there could be
any relationship between them. There was something in the child's eyes
that in some strange fashion recalled the eyes of Rosa Mundi. So might
she once have gazed in innocence upon a world unknown.
Again, almost savagely, he strove to thrust away the thoughts that
troubled him. The child was bound to be contaminated sooner or later;
but what was that to him? It was out of his power to deliver her. He was
no rescuer of damsels in distress.
So he put away from him the thought of Rosa Mundi and the thought of the
child called Rosemary who had come to him out of the morning sunlight,
and went back to his hotel doggedly determined that neither the one nor
the other should disturb his peace of mind.
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