"But won't your father miss you?" she queried, with mock seriousness.

"He pays no attention whatever to my irregular habits, and I think
that's one reason why we get on so well together. It's a wise father who
knows his own child."

"Especially if it is a wise child," she replied. Her eyes were dancing
with mirth, a scarlet signal burned on either cheek, and her parted lips
were crimson. She seemed lovelier to him than ever before.

"Honestly, Rose, you seem to get prettier every day."

"Then," she smiled, "if I were younger, I might eventually become
dangerous."

"Rose--"

"Old Rose," she interrupted. The high colour faded from her face as she
spoke and left her pale.

Allison put his hand on her arm and stopped. "Rose, please don't. You're
not a day older than I am."

"Ten years," she insisted stubbornly, for women are wont to lean upon
the knife that stabs them and she was in a reckless mood. "When you're
forty, I'll be fifty."

A shadow crossed his face. "It hurts me, someway, to have you talk so. I
don't know how--nor why."