She looked, and again the mystery was in her face. For a moment she did
not speak. Then, "It is violet," she said--"the colour of Rosa Mundi's
eyes."

Ere the frown had died from his face she was gone, pattering lightly
over the sand, flitting like a day-dream into the blinding sunshine that
seemed to drop a veil behind her, leaving him to his thoughts.

* * * * *

Randal Courteney was an old and favoured guest at the Hurley Bay Hotel.
From his own particular corner of the great dining-room he was
accustomed to look out upon the world that came and went. Frequently
when he was there the place was almost deserted, and always he had been
treated as the visitor of most importance. But to-night, for the first
time, he found himself supplanted. Someone of more importance was
staying in the hotel, someone who had attracted crowds, whose popularity
amounted almost to idolatry.

The hotel was full, but Courteney, despite his far-reaching fame, was
almost entirely overlooked. News had spread that the wonderful
Australian dancer was to perform at the Pier Pavilion at the end of the
week, and the crowds had gathered to do her honour. They were going to
strew the Pier with roses on the night of her appearance, and they were
watching even now for the first sign of her with all the eager curiosity
that marks down any celebrity as fair prey. Courteney smiled grimly to
himself. How often it had been his lot to evade the lion-hunters! It was
an unspeakable relief to have the general attention thus diverted from
himself. Doubtless Rosa Mundi would revel in it. It was her _rôle_ in
life, the touchstone of her profession. Adulation was the very air she