giving me so marked a sign of the pacific as your coming round———"
"On the question," Rose broke in, "of one's relation to that little image and echo of her adored mother? That isn't peace, my dear Tony. You give me just the occasion to let you formally know that it's war."
Tony gave another laugh. "War?"
"Not on you—I pity you too much."
"Then on whom?"
Rose hesitated. "On any one, on every one, who may be likely to find that small child—small as she is!—inconvenient. Oh, I know," she went on, "you'll say I come late in the day for this and you'll remind me of how very short a time ago it was that I declined a request of yours to occupy myself with her at all. Only half an hour has elapsed, but what has happened in it has made all the difference."
She spoke without discernible excitement, and Tony had already become aware that the face she actually showed him was not a thing to make him estimate directly the effect wrought in her by the incongruous result of the influence he had put forth under pressure of her ardour. He needed no great
