"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
naïvely. "When Rosa Mundi is old, I shall take her place, so that she
may still be remembered."

The words, "Heaven forbid!" were on Courteney's lips. He checked them
sharply, but something of his original grimness returned as he said,
"And now that you are on the other side of the breakwater, what are you
going to do?"

She looked up at him speculatively, and in a moment tossed back the
short golden curls that clustered at her neck. She was sublimely young.
In the eyes of the man, newly awakened, she had the look of one who has
seen life without comprehending it. "I always like to get the other side