whose face had a look of happiness, pressed his arm in reply.

Inside the tailor-shop, a voice kept saying, "More airs than Beauty
Steele!"





CHAPTER XXXIX

THE SCARLET WOMAN

Since the evening in the garden when she had been drawn into Charley's
arms, and then fled from them in joyful confusion, Rosalie had been in a
dream. She had not closed her eyes all night, or, if she closed them,
they still saw beautiful things flashing by, to be succeeded by other
beautiful things. It was a roseate world. To her simple nature it was
not so important to be loved as to love. Selfishness was as yet the
minor part of her. She had been giving all her life--to her mother, as a
child; to sisters at the convent who had been kind to her; to the poor
and the sick of the parish; to her father, who was helpless without her;
to the tailor across the way. In each case she had given more than she
had got. A nature overflowing with impulsive affection, it must spend
itself upon others. The maternal instinct was at the very core of her
nature, and care for others was as much a habit as an instinct with her.
She had love to give, and it must be given. It had been poured like the
rain from heaven on the just and the unjust; on animals as on human
beings, and in so far as her nature, in the first spring--the very April
--of its powers, could do.