forgotten.

It was a queer sort of feeling--a kind of misgiving, in one form or
another, as to her own identity--as if all the events since her marriage
were nothing but a dream of Rose Stanton's, from which, with vague
painful stirrings, she was just beginning to wake. Or, again, as if for
all these months, she had been playing a part in a preposterously long
play, on which the curtain was, presently, going to be rung down. She
wished Rodney would come--hoped he wouldn't be late, and finally sat
down before the telephone with a half-formed idea of calling him up and
reminding him that they were dining with the Randolphs.

Just as she laid her hand upon the receiver, the telephone bell rang. It
was Rodney calling her.

"Oh, that you, Rose?" he said. "I shan't be out till late to-night.
I've got to work."

She wanted to know what he meant by late.

"I've no idea," he said. "Ten--twelve--two. I've got to get hold of
something, but I've no idea how long it will take."

"But, Roddy, dearest," she protested. "You have to come home. You've got
the Randolphs' dinner."

"Oh, the devil!" he said. "I forgot all about it. But it doesn't make a
bit of difference, anyway. I wouldn't leave the office before I finished
this job, for anybody short of the Angel Gabriel."