 section 18 of the Rose-coloured World and Other Fantasies. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa Green. The Rose-coloured World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody. Chapter 4 Donald had been gone for some months, long lonely months for prudence. His aunt was ill so he had said he had to leave suddenly and had no time to say goodbye even to miss prudence. And all these past months prudence had looked poorly. Indeed, Maria McCutcheon anxiously watched her baby and shook her head doubtfully when she and Dan were alone. Dan sat like a sphinx, smoking his pipe and occasionally winking in an odd way at his spouse. He had grown silent since his chuckling spell. And Maria declared to a friendly gossip that she was sure Dan knew why Miss Prue was so pale and where Donald the gardener was to be found. Dan's absolute silence was on canny. He had not gossiped for days and that was extraordinary. She was that positive he knew more than could be got out of him of this gardener business. Poor Miss Prue. And then Mr. Chesterfield observed how thin and white prudence was growing. He sent for a doctor, and the doctor, wiser than the father, ordered a trip away for a change of scene. So it was planned to send Prue to New York on a visit to her relatives there. Ever since the day on the knoll that she had overheard the story of the princess on the page, Donald's manner had changed toward her. He saw her among the furs that day in August and he knew that she had understood him. Yes, his manner had changed. He had grown even colder than she was and avoided her so completely that sometimes she never saw him for days. He never gave her a chance to show him that she did care and was sorry for the past. Donald simply developed into an iceberg and then suddenly, one day in December, he went away. Went away without a word of hope to prudence and left her to dream over the sad what might have been. She had visited in New York some weeks, weeks filled with a round of pleasures, shopping, theatre, supper parties, concerts, automobiling in Central Park in a long riverside drive, and the usual gayities which people of fair means and time to spare can enjoy in New York during the winter time. The change had brightened her up a little, but she still looked pale. Prudence Chesterfield had seen much that was gay and beautiful, interesting and exciting in New York, but it failed to bring back her old self. She had changed. Changed in a different way from Donald, seemingly. Everywhere she looked for one pair of eyes, one face in the world. She studied the crowds of faces as her uncle's auto-car sped down Fifth Avenue or hurried over the frozen roads of Central Park. Hungrily she watched the thousands of busy beings in the shops and on the sidewalks. It was in vain. No Donald was to be seen anywhere. Hundreds, thousands of hazel eyes there were in New York, but the pair prune most long to see were not. There were days when the world seemed to whirl so giddily around her that she even wondered if ever a Donald had been in her life and dreams of love and happiness. The past seemed so unreal in the midst of all this clatter and excitement and gaiety, the knoll in the fir tree so far away from the brownstone mansions of Fifth Avenue. The princess and the page almost ridiculous among these scurrying throngs of people. She was packed and fancy incompatible, but Prue's Gardener was very much alive. The past existed and no present would ever wipe it out. Prudence knew that she could not expect to see Donald in New York, indeed never to see him again, for he had said nothing of returning to the Chesterfield's home. The last Donald Jackson was very much alive. Dan did know more about the Gardener business than he intended relating to Maria, and some day Maria McCutcheon was to be downed in a way she never expected. One day an invitation came for Prue and her cousins to a private dance in the Hotel Belmont. It was nearing the end of her visit in New York. Indeed, this was to be her last dance before she returned home. Prudence had made up her mind to bury the remembrance of Donald Jackson forever, and this was to be the last night of the existence of that sweet love memory. Tomorrow, and all the tomorrows to come, she would try and live as if Donald had never been. She would marry my not braid and make the best of it. She would never see Donald again. Why think of him? One must live on. Prudence looked sweet in her dainty white silk gown, her blue eyes larger for the thinness of her face, shown with illustrious beauty tonight. The ready flash seemed to have died out of them, a half-resigned expression played about the pretty mouth that was want to be so mischievous and proud. Partners were not wanting, for Prue's admirers were many, but she only half enjoyed the evening and that in a listless fashion. Halfway through the program Prudence was sitting in a small Turkish room, where Oriental cushions and divans were plentiful and coffee was served on teakwood tables. Her cousin had left her for another partner and she had begged him to leave her where it was quiet and she would be undisturbed. Oblivious of the music which bade her dance and forget. Oblivious of the lights and laughter which told her to live in the present alone. Oblivious of the fragrance and the fascination of the scented ballroom, the shimmering costumes that admiring eyes of the men, forgetful of all this wild strange gaiety she was sitting alone, dreaming of her sweet love memory, dreaming of Donald. On her lap lay a sheaf of white roses strangely like those of her rose-bush on the knoll. Her cousin had given them to her in the auto-car on their way to the dance, and when she asked where they had come from he said he did not know, and there was no card nor note attached. Even these had not lightened her heart for to-night the story ended. Tomorrow she must think of Donald no more. She would go back to her home and to mine at braid. She leaned back among the silk cushions, laid one arm across them, and buried her face on it. She did not weep, but more than one long weary sigh broke from her proud lips. Thus Prudence was sighing and oblivious when a man entered the room. He hesitated apparently. Pardon me. Do I interrupt you, madam? The girl sprang to her feet. Donald! She cried in amazement, her proud self-command for saking her. Miss Chesterfield. He exclaimed, starting backward in a parent's surprise. A thousand pardons I did not know you were in New York, at least of all at this dance. How came you here? Prudence leaned against the wall to study herself. She felt giddy. I am staying with an uncle of mine. And you? She asked, suddenly aware of his fine evening dress and a small diamond ring which flashed on his finger. I am visiting also. Answered Donald with an odd smile in his inscrutable hazel eyes. What will you have the page do? Obedience is the courtesy due to kings and princesses. The girl blushed. Of his free will he was reverting to the past. You have always been the prince to me. She said simply, a world of love looking out of her lustrous blue eyes. A princess asks no obedience of her prince. Donald laughed gaily. Then you will have another rose-bush planted by your white rose on the knoll. He questioned, looking down into her eyes for the truth. Pruse eyes fell on the sheaf of white roses. Was it you who sent me these flowers tonight? The odd smile came back to his eyes again. Who did you think sent them? Well, I never thought you would. I did not think you—she hesitated. Cared? He suggested. Prue nodded. And you thought I had forgotten? He asked with a shade of reproach in his tone. I did, replied Prudence. Well, they are yours, and you have accepted them or you wouldn't have them here now, Miss Prudence. You didn't give me a chance to refuse them, laughed Prue, did you? I didn't intend that you should refuse, he said, with his look of domination which had thrilled Prue the first day their eyes had met. He was conquering her. Have your way, laughed Prue. I resolved that I would with you months ago, said Donald Cooley. Are you satisfied? asked Prudence sossily. Nearly, from Donald. You gorgon! laughed the happy girl. What more do you want? You haven't answered my question yet, from Donald resolutely. What question, Sir Gardner? Are you going to have another rose-bush planted by your white rose on the knoll? Yes, Donald, she assented softly, and their lives, their love, and their white roses lived and died together. They both laughed heartily. And so ends the story. Finished Donald, impulsively holding out his arms to her. Not the end yet. And Prudence retreated. Pray, what is the end, little princess? Prudence Chesterfield stood irresolute a moment and then asked humbly. Who are you, Mr. Jackson? Donald caught her impulsively in his arms and kissed her many times, and with a wonderfully sweet smile in his hazel eyes he whispered softly, I am my not braid. End of section 18, recording by Melissa Green. Section 19 of The Rose-Colour World and Other Fantasies. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Kaylee Monahan. The Rose-Colour World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody. Faith, Chapter 1. Girls, said Betty in tones of decision, you may say what you like about Faith, but one thing is certain, she is very different from the rest of us. In fact, Faith is distinct from us, rather above us, I think. How it is, I can't explain, but she is unlike us, and the difference is a big one. I don't see your point, remarked a vulgar-looking, fair-haired girl whose cheeks were well-ruged and whose fingers were covered with the showy supply of imitation rings. She never dresses up as we do. No, answered Betty sharply. She certainly does not if dressing consists in a supply of boxes and bottles on a dressing table or their contents displayed on a showcase. The vulgar girl, Sue by name, snapped a glance at the speaker, sniffed and flung off through the swing door into the restaurant. It was just between meals, or rather just before luncheon was to be served. The waitresses had collected in a room back of the restaurant which led into the kitchen and were awaiting the arrival of their usual and sometimes unusual customers. They had been discussing one of their members, who had lately joined their ranks in waiting on numerous hungry visitors. That's rather hot on Sue, Betty, said a dark-haired girl. All the swell's powder and paint and dye, I daresay, Della. They do powder, paint, yes, and they dye. Dye is girls like Sue are not permitted to dye. Sue's is a living death. Well, what choice has a girl who's been brought up as Sue was? A sort of just groad, asked a mild-eyed girl. Don't be hard on her. Your life has been easier than hers. Has it? demanded Betty turning on the speaker quickly. What do you know of my life? Oh, nothing. But I see you every day, and you seem happy. And you are good. That's just it, bud. It is the way we all do. We judge others by a moment of seeing and hearing when a whole lifetime has passed before that moment. A whole lifetime of which we are unaware for chance as cold and cruel and bitter as we think it is sunny and warm. Bud shrugged her shoulders and subsided. Don't let us be the horrors about it, Betty. If Sue has chosen the life we know she all has, so be it. Amen. And Della laughed as she held up a hand glass and smoothed her curls. Betty shuddered. Sue knows what is right and what is wrong as well as you or I or anyone else knows. And as far as I can see, her life has been no harder than that of the rest of us. For instance, yours. Della turned away. She busied herself folding some table napkins that had been piled on a table nearby, for she had nothing bright to say of her life. Customer. Shotted someone through the swing doors and Betty lifted a tray of forks, knives and spoons, and vanished through the swing doors into the restaurant. Betty always gets the last word. Said a red-haired girl, good-naturedly. And Betty is nearly always right, remarked Della with a sigh. Always. Came in course from several other girls in the room, each with her own emphasis on the word and each in her own tone, for Betty had entered each life and left it better for her presence. Then the girls hurried into the restaurant, for customers were beginning to arrive in shoals, and minutes cost money in the bottom face. End of section 19. This recording is by Kaylee Monahan. Section 20 of The Rose-Colored World and Other Fantasies. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Kaylee Monahan. The Rose-Colored World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody. The waitresses whom the girls had been discussing went by the name of Faith Winston. For some time she had been a waitress in the bottom face restaurant. Yet no one except perhaps Betty knew her any better than the day she came. And not even Betty knew anything of her life history in the past. She came alone, no one knew from where, and she returned as she came. No one cared. For no one has time enough to care and no one has care enough to be interested in the life of a mere waitress in New York. Like so many candles, they burn for so many moments. And when the wick flares out the last bit of life, their place knows them no more. And so ends the candle. Faith Winston was a tall, slender girl. Not a trace of color tinged her pale olive cheeks. And she possessed a pair of long, narrow gray eyes. Strange eyes. That may have warmed in their time, but which turned a cold gaze on the world around her. A pretty girl was Faith. But wherein particularly lay her prettiness one could not say. Unless it was that subtle something in expression which betrayed a glow of intense feeling beneath the coldness. A warmth that would have made her beautiful had her life found expression. It was like a river, deep and full, flowing silently to the sea beneath a shield of ice. Faith always dressed in black, which although unobtrusive in color, enhanced her grace and intensified the pale olive of cheek and brow. The waves of her silky brown hair were parted in the center and gathered in a soft knot at the nape of her neck. A striking contrast to the ambitious pompadours of Marcel waving and soaring height which stiffly encircled the heads or flopped in tousled elegance into the eyes of the other waitresses, à la mode. Faith moved about the restaurant with an air of being oblivious to her surroundings and unconscious of their meaning in her life. Faith may have studied the warfare of life and decided that her best course would be to stand alone, her natural self, and fight or die alone. Or she may have thought to win her battles by force of opposition and contrast. However it may have been, her general appearance, had she been a plain girl, would have been unnoticeable. But with her fine face and noble carriage, Faith was the most striking figure in the restaurant Boniface. And although she was utterly unconscious of the fact, the customers of the male sex had considerably increased since she appeared. A thing of beauty is a joy forever and a pretty woman is the goal of every man's admiration. Yet Faith had no man-friend, not even an acquaintance among them and not from any unwillingness on their part. Faith's manner towards everyone was a study in dignity and reserve. If she unbent in the least, it was only in the slightest degree to Betty. All the waitresses admired her, not willingly. Faith's prettiness was rare, like the golden-hued diamonds. Her personality was almost quixotic in its charm of separation and aloofness. And both were marked among the mediocre faces and characters of those around her. Jealousy is the choisted bit of ignorance and Faith's unknown life and silent beauty met with a full share of this delectable dainty. Betty alone of all of them kept her thoughts of Faith to herself. Though she was shy in Faith's presence, she portrayed a loyalty and zeal almost fierce among her companions when Faith was the subject discussed and criticized. But Betty was too much a favorite with the girls to be condemned for this. She was their best friend, and each girl had a story in her remembrance of Betty's kindness and help in a time of need and distress. Thus, Betty became the peacemaker between Faith and the waitresses. Not one of them had courage to criticize or comment on Faith when she was present. They seemed to fear her, but Betty had to expend all her energies in making peace when Faith was not there. They felt that she was made of finer and better material than themselves, so they disliked her heartily. Envy was the cross and resentment the consolation of their mediocrity. Each girl in the Boniface restaurant had her own little history. It may have been a quiet, insignificant one fraught with its own sorrows and lit with its small pleasures, or it may have been an exciting one out in the world in the glare of noonday, but it was a history of life, every day life, and it interested Betty. Betty had a great heart, although she was unaware of it. Some of the girls had lives of duty to live, duty at home, duty at the restaurant Boniface. Many of their evenings were held in the reins of duty. The ties of sick ones, parents or children, bound them in the chains of immutable duty, hand and foot, every day, year in and year out. Others lived for pleasure, having a good time and lots of fun. They spent their little all on dress and theaters. They gatted here and there, wherever the gay penions of pleasure fluttered before their eyes. Others still, and these were the girls whose lives cruelly pained Betty, died in living. They destroyed the womanly rights of their existence, sacrificed their names, their characters, their lives, to the passions of dress, money, admiration, and to the fury of a life of excitement. Fast, the world calls them. Betty loved them all, but she loved Faith above them all and kept her love sacred. There was a fineness in Betty's heart, the fineness of real and deep sympathy. Betty penetrated Faith's character and her thoughts to a certain extent by means of this rare and fine sympathy, and though Faith seldom spoke to any of the girls, what she said to Betty was worth listening to. So thought Betty, and she never forgot any of her occasional short conversations with her beloved Faith. With the arrival of Faith Winston at the restaurant Boniface, a trial had come to Betty. She was fond of Sue, and Sue's life was all wrong, and the coming of Faith had made matters worse. The greatest opposition in the restaurant was between these two, an opposition that was physical, as well as mental. Sue was a fair-haired, vulgar, selfish girl, jealous, hard-hearted, and ignorant, a contrast in every way to the refined and gentle Faith. Like all ignorant people, she was just as free with her opinions and criticisms of other persons as Faith was wise, merciful, and silent. During meal hours, none of the waitresses had time to notice each other, or the manners of male customers. Nevertheless, they were all aware that Faith was the center of admiration, and courtesies were paid her and rendered to themselves. Faith was oblivious, or if she did notice it, she did not care and did not encourage it. Unasked, she was receiving the very things, admiration, and attention that Sue longed for, and the latter hated her for it. Faith avoided Sue more than any of the waitresses in the restaurant Boniface, because she felt the hatred and pitied it sincerely. Indeed, Faith shrank from contact to a vulgar girl as one dreads a snake. No one noticed it but Betty. As she watched, she became convinced that it was not Sue herself that made Faith Winston turn away, but some stronger motive in Faith's life, probably some feeling which had its foundation in the past, a memory which influenced her manners, her words, and her actions in the restaurant Boniface. One day, Sue was more than ordinarily rude to Faith, and the admirer of hers had been particularly polite and pleasant to the unconscious girl. Sue, with the weakness of her nature, grew angry, then revengeful. She blustered into Faith and brushed against her with every chance in waiting that brought them near each other. Betty had been quietly observing how things were going. As Sue never once looked in her direction, she had no way of signaling a warning to her or trying to prevent her marked and offensive rudeness. Presently, Faith came in with a tray of soup plates well filled. Sue was crossing the room from a side table where she had gathered up some spoons and table napkins. As she saw Faith Winston coming, she deliberately crossed behind her and knocked her elbow. Down fell the tray with a crash. The soup splashed over a table nearby as the plate struck it in their fall, and it spilled over the front of Faith's skirt. Betty hurried to the rescue. Before she reached the spot, Sue's admirer was down on his knees, wiping off the soiled dress with his table napkin, and Sue looked at him with rage and dismay. Thank you, said Faith quietly, looking as calm and self-poised as usual. No thanks, please, returned the young man, glancing up with a smile. It's a pleasure to serve a lady like you. Faith smiled graciously in return but said nothing. When she had finished, she held her arm through Faith's, a familiarity she had never used before, and they retired to the cloakroom together. A pan of warm water was soon made ready, and Betty silently set to work to clean the dress as best she could. I'm afraid it's going to stain, she remarked gently. Never mind. It does not matter, answered Faith. Something in the tone of her voice made Betty glance up. Faith's eyes were filled with tears. Betty bent her head lower over the skirt and rubbed it until it had some appearance of dryness. I don't want to be rude, but is it the only one you have? inquired Betty softly, hesitatingly, not wishing to offend her friend. No, I have other clothes. But I cannot, I mean to say, I do not wear them. That is all right, thanks. It does not need any more rubbing. And she stooped and ran her hand over the front of her dress. Sue passed the door at that moment, and Betty called to her, turning gravely around to face her. Well, what do you want? She snapped so coolly. You have been very rude to Miss Winston. Her dress is spoiled. You owe her an apology, and you have not even said you were sorry. Betty did not look at her as she spoke. She was giving the skirt a final rub. And neither I am. Sue stopped short, her faith had glanced up from her dress and fixed her long grey eyes full upon her with a look of pity and perhaps a tiny touch of contempt. I mean to say, shuttered the girl, abashed. I suppose I am sorry. Only suppose, exclaimed Betty with a little flash of anger. Don't you mean what you say? No, cried Sue doggedly. For a moment no one spoke in the cloak room. Neither Faith nor Betty moved their eyes from her face and she dropped her eyes shame-facedly before them. But the stubborn expression only hardened. Say no more. It is nothing. And Faith turned to Betty. I feel sorry for her. Indeed, I pity her. She is a child yet, not in innocence, but in ignorance. And ignorance is the more helpless of the two. Its helplessness is the more pitiful. The harvest of such sowing is bitter. But it may open her eyes and bring her knowledge as it has done for others since the world began. I don't want to know, said Sue obstinately. Perhaps you already know. In any case, you know the way of right and the end of wrong. The present is yours and you live it as you please. But knowledge, such as I mean, will come with the future and its fruit will be bitter to taste. God help you when it does come for the consequences of lives such as yours are terrible, terrible. And an expression of intense pain and horror crossed Faith's face. Hearts like Sue's are not so hardened in wrongdoing at her age as they usually are in later years and Faith's words and the suffering which flashed in her face and their impression on the weak girl. She stood irresolutely in the doorway and murmured, I'm sorry I did what I did, but I couldn't help it. That is, I couldn't help my feelings. Sue made an attempt at a smile and then awkwardly left the room and went back into the restaurant. How hopeless it is to help girls like that. Side Betty, their feelings guide them in everything. It seems impossible to appeal to their reason or sense if they have any. I've tried so often to reason with that poor wayward girl. Yes, it does seem hopeless. The impulse of a moment will carry them wherever so it leads. Their better feelings come and go impulsively less and less frequently as the years roll onward and as they continue in the way they have chosen. Sue was touched just now and it was her better self, will it last? And Faith sighed. Betty shook her head sadly. God knows with some of us it takes more than human aid to help us out of a tight corner or out of the mire. Human beings may help us some, but if you haven't got a bit of God in your heart, you're nowhere. That's what I've experienced and I guess I'm right. Poor Sue. She has done her worst to me today and also her best. And she may improve after all. Who knows? Little seeds of self-forgiveness have a wonderful way of budding out into good trees. And Faith smiled hopefully as they returned to the restaurant. End of section 20. This recording is by Kaylee Monahan. Section 21 of the rose-colored world and other fantasies. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Kaylee Monahan. The Rose-Colored World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody. Faith. Chapter 3 Restaurant life in a big city is a busy one. The only monotony lies in the regular customers who appear every day in the 365 days of the year and an extra day in leap year. But there are ever new faces coming. Strangers from foreign lands, native tourists and the miscellaneous drop-ins who drop in and out of any good restaurant they happen to be near at mealtime. There are restaurants and restaurants in New York. Some are for entertainment and amusement, a glow with lights and palms where music and songs soothe the wearied senses of the zipper of straws as he leans over his tall glass or reads his head in the pale smoke of a cigar. There are restaurants for shoppers, redolent of beef steak, sour vinegar and the frying pan, noisy with the ceaseless clatter of dishes and the chatter of many tongues and twanging with the scrapings and discords of a would-be orchestra. There are restaurants for cheapness where bread and beef are served in layers as bricks are laid on a wall, simple and wholesome but rather hard of digestion. And there is the restaurant where afternoon tea is daintily enjoyed where quiet is possible from the thronged and shouting streets where the talk is refined and the tea choice. Then there are many other restaurants some for specialties some for meeting places some for high prices and others for the man with a spare dime. And best of all there is the restaurant where a valid round meal can be got for a square price and such was the Boniface Restaurant. The Boniface was neither expensive nor cheap but the meals were excellent and reasonable. It was not an elaborately decorated restaurant but it was not plain and best of all it was clean and well kept and good for a half hours rest. The walls were papered in dark green mirrors paneled here and there above a leather day-dough electric lights and brightened the general effect. A weathered oak buffet in one corner glittered with an array of variously colored liquor glasses on a balcony opposite and surrounded with palms and ferns an orchestra of mediocre ability discourse the whims of the hour whether classical or otherwise three times a day. A row of pillars in the center of the room added a touch of dignity to the restaurant despite the fact that they were painted to represent white marble and imposed politely on country customers. It was Easter time New York was filled with visitors and violets the flowing feathers and gay flowers of the hopeful Easter hat darted along with every carriage the world of women was absorbed in its gayest Easter attire the shops were like henroosts with eggs of all sizes and colors on all the favorite promenades crowds of people were passing to and fro and the sidewalks were aglow with all the hues of the rainbow revealed in spring suits at the corners of the streets boys and men sold roses of every shade lilies of the valley daffodils, narcissists tulips frissas and violets and the vivid fresh green grass of central park seemed all the more vivid for the lack of foliage on the trees and bushes. The Boniface restaurant was doing an excellent business crowds of customers were pouring in the waitresses were as busy as bees in a hive the orchestra was excelling itself in variations on old heirs and in the chances of an up-to-date de-tom it had just dipped into the latest comic opera when a gentleman entered the restaurant no one noticed him all the tables were filled and everyone in a hurry rushing orders and trays several persons arose from Faith Winston's table the manager noticing them touched the gentleman on the arm and led him to her table Faith was busying herself changing the cloth laying down spoons forks and knives folding a table napkin and setting a glass of iced water on the table she had just laid the decanter down when she observed the gentleman's start as he hung his hat and coat on some brass pegs by a mirror she lifted her head his back was toward her but he was staring amazingly into the mirror just behind his Faith saw and laid the decanter down with a crash that would have drawn a shoal of eyes in her direction had not the orchestra reached the last chorus in the comic opera it was playing and the chatter of a hundred customers or more doled the sound of the glass the man turned around and faced her a look of passionate admiration burning in his brown eyes Faith Winston steadied herself by the table and answered his expression with a facey coldness he bent his brows then smiled in recognition so this is where Madame has hidden herself he exclaimed politely hidden herself do you call this hiding and she glanced around the crowded room carelessly as she nervously fingered the pencil and pad oh but you are wise Madame it is well to hide where people least expect to find you hiding himself at the table I am not hiding haven't you found me here and now Mr. Gaspar she asked indifferently handing him the bill of fair that is today what of yesterday he queried with a half sneer your questions are not courtesies said Faith icely nor are the answers kind and Pierre Gaspar cast a glance over the bill of fair could you not sit down with me continued and let someone else serve and wait upon me he did not lift his eyes from the card but Faith felt the satire and dug her nails into her palms answering quietly the while it is against the rules the rules levée de kit came his sarcastic query what will you have demanded Faith in a low tone ignoring his question give me your order please the manager is watching us the manager of this restaurant rule your life Faith made no answer ah well here is my order and he took the pad from her and wrote it down himself I shall drink to your happiness if you will bring me some wine and he pointed to an expensive wine on the list Faith hurried away her nerves had received a severe shock her cheeks were flushed as they rarely were and her eyes sparkled with resentment and defiance she ran into the cloak room and sat down in a chair swaying herself to and fro and clenching and unclenching her hands to gain control over herself when she had quieted she got up and returned with the first part of Pierre's order she set it down before him arranged the dishes and left him Betty was standing near the table so Pierre Gaspar dared not address her again as he had done when she brought in his last course he was serving at another table and as Faith filled his glass with more iced water he took a hold of her wrist when no one was observing listen Faith is that your name here? I want to see you meet me tonight at Raymore's restaurant seven o'clock sharp I cannot gasp she you must or the manager will know the reason why and he darted a cruel glance at her pity me she whispered Mr. Gaspar I am Pierre he interrupted with a smile half pleading half satirical Pierre pity me leave me in peace in this place this peace the only peace I have known for years go your way Pierre and let me go mine never now that I have found you I will keep you loser seekers finders keepers you shall not escape me and slipped on his coat and hat easily carelessly and smilingly poor Faith her eyelids drooped till her eyes closed for the room seemed to be rocking under her feet and whirling in the maddest maze are you ill Miss Winston Betty was at her elbow and Pierre was gone yes I feel very ill I must go home home and at the word she shuttered may I go with you I might be able to help you I would so like to help you said Betty gently no, no thanks Betty I shall be alright tomorrow is very kind of you but I am better alone and Faith made an excuse to the manager and left looking more pale than usual and very tired Betty looked after her in wonderment and pity as the door of the restaurant Boniface closed behind her slender figure a strange weird world we live in she thought people and things are all kinds of dreams and mysteries one never knows just how things are going to happen or what will happen next or anything it's a good thing we don't live in this world forever end of section 21 this recording is by Kaley Monahan section 22 of the rose colored world and other fantasies this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Melissa Green the rose colored world and other fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody Faith, chapter 4 at 7 o'clock sharp Faith met Pierre Gaspard at Raymores restaurant Raymores was a restaurant of the elite but the patronage of the elite is no standard by which to judge the mental or moral tone of any restaurant in New York or anywhere else the great and the gay frequented Raymores diamonds and sham brilliance shown side by side in the general brilliance and the world rolled on easily and smiled at Raymores the decorations of Raymores were as elaborate as their prices the walls of the main room were covered with mirrors and between the mirrors were frescoes of beautiful figures and flowers and music frescoes decorated the ceiling with rosy cupids and downy clouds and gilded stucco work in rose reliefs outlined mirror and fresco a thick soft rose carpet covered the floor in harmony with the tone color of the room gilt tables inlaid with marble and gilt chairs cushioned with pink plush were placed here and there among the palms and ferns huge vases of pink and white roses were scattered through the room giving the effect of a garden of flowers and greenery pink shades sheltered the quaint electric lamps on each table and the clusters suspended from the ceiling were encased in globes of so darker pink that the light fell with a soft sunset glow of the room white and pink carnations and lilies of the valley entwined with smellax stood in pretty cut glass vases on every table and in the center of the room the fountain played the water trickling over a mass of nile green crystals representing icicles and around the edge of its marble basin was a fringe of mosses thick with violets and floating on the water's surface were white and pink water lilies the fountain was lit up with huge electric lights it was very gay and gaudy and gorgeous and very New York had the waitresses of the Boniface and at the moment she entered this room with Pierre Gaspard they would not have recognized her for the same person they had known she was in an evening costume of palest violet a chain of amethysts dark and lustrous circled her neck and a large brooch of pearls and diamonds fastened a bertha of old lace at her breast she hardly seemed Faith Winston as she glided across the room in a long lace cloak and feather boa how surprised Betty would have been she looked like a queen and walked like one Pierre thought her more beautiful than ever every line of her graceful form and refined features every pose of her head, every light that flashed in her eyes was ravishing to him more so now than ever it had been in the past the circumstances of their present meeting cast a glamour of mystery and romance around them to be alone with Faith under such conditions was exciting and luxurious in the extreme Pierre loved her beauty but he did not know Faith for he had no depths in himself to sound the deeps of another heart they crossed the room to a corner table where a sheltering palm partly hid them from the rest of the room a huge bouquet of American beauty roses occupied the center of the table and were tied with streamers of palest pink ribbon a little card lay near the vase and on it was written to the one woman of my life whom I hope some dear day to make my wife the room was very warm but Faith shivered as Pierre slipped her cloak off her fair shoulders with a lingering touch are you cold dear he asked laying his hand softly on her shoulder no it is very warm here and she removed his hand from her shoulder and sat down near the window that faced Broadway you are very quiet tonight and very cold in spite of the summer warmth here remarked Pierre carelessly eyeing her admiringly to you have I not been usually so she inquired icely maybe but you have wit and wisdom and can become enthusiastic and warm when you please returned Pierre and I pleased to treat you as I have always done and I suppose my wit is to be cold and my wisdom to be quiet and Faith twisted the streamers of ribbon into a knot Pierre smiled you are almost perfect but one thing one quality one virtue if you like is wanting or rather lacking and that is she queried indifferently picking up a menu card written for the occasion love and Pierre's eyes burned into hers but she turned her head away and gazed out of the window saying coolly I don't understand you Mr. Gaspard I loved my husband you mean you thought you loved him and you may well say loved for it is past and gone Faith said nothing but the pink flesh of her palms turned red from the force with which her nails sank into them Pierre continued insistently and cruelly it was a dream Faith a dream of a day sweet with sunshine and beauty but it faded faded ere the day closed as the vapours of morning vanish before the sun so the mystery died and the fire that destroyed the mystery was a violent spirit and it burned the ethereal the ideal love and left you the ashes death she was silent a moment and then said quietly my husband is not dead no he were better so exclaimed Pierre Faith's eyes flashed fire as she answered this is not a fitting subject for discussion between you and I and yet it is the one nearest your heart and most in your thoughts said Pierre leaning across the table and searching her eyes when did you find that you were clairvoyant she asked coolly and when did you cease to love freedom this counter thrust told on her for she closed her eyes a moment and then leaned her head on the palm of her hand Pierre continued speaking your husband has not divorced you because you have left him nor can you get a separation do you know that he has offered a large reward for information of your whereabouts your beauty is dear to him he is willing to pay any price for its return Faith arose quickly insult me how dare you I do not believe it it cannot be true I will leave you this instant read this and Pierre handed her a newspaper cutting Faith held out an unsteady hand and clutched it slowly she read it and slowly but surely a cloud of indignation, resentment and defiance gathered in her face the color rose in her cheeks while her eyelids dropped till the eyes filled her heart for Faith was being tempted in her weakest moments when anger filled her heart at her husband's indignity and cruelty to herself she laid the cutting on the table with an almost nervous hand and Pierre slipped it into his pocket will you leave me now he inquired with a half smile Faith sat down slowly and dropped her head in her hands wretchedly then you believe it asked Pierre as it is written clearly Pierre reached across the table and clasped one of her hands Faith withdrew it and laid it on the window sill lifting her head hotly you are unhappy continued her tormenter am I was the listless response you know you are persisted Pierre that's a question returned she tearing a rose to pieces you were once very happy taking a cruel sort of pleasure out of worrying his lovely victim as a street cur would revel in the killing of a rare Persian cat and that is problematical said Faith slowly Pierre lit a cigar you are not just like other girls I have known he meditated as if to be unlike the others of her sex was akin to insanity or to something essentially criminal Faith piled the torn rose leaves together before she answered with the least curl of her lip that is very unfortunate why he queried familiarity breeds contempt she said ignoring his remark you and I have not yet arrived at that stage in our duel I draw a fine line between my present feelings and that but if with your weapon that slip of paper you drive me into a corner I will cross the line your Rubicon and the end will be a tragedy Pierre continued his smoking in silence and his companion listlessly watched the passersby in the ever-hurrying traffic of Broadway among the palms at one end of the room an orchestra was playing a symphony on love its war and its weariness presently Pierre laid down his cigar remarking quietly it is the fashion just now to serve coffee in the Turkish rooms upstairs let us go there we can talk in peace and it is cooler Faith arose mechanically while Pierre gathered up her cloak in the roses and followed her out of the room you have never thanked me for these he said holding the roses toward her but Faith Winston's hand was busy with her amethyst bracelet why should I she asked carelessly common courtesy he returned my courtesy is uncommon remarked she still busy with her bracelet and not offering to take the flowers it comes from the heart and is natural you compelled me here how can I thank you for a present of roses it is a part of the force which brought me here and makes you my enemy Pierre shook his head not your enemy but something you need a lover the worst enemy of a married woman he claimed Faith defiantly as they entered one of the oriental rooms the rooms opened into one another but were curtained off with oriental draperies each room in a different color Pierre chose a green room it makes a lovely background for your beauty Faith he said admiringly you are like a violet in a bed of moss here she laughed carelessly a pale violet if I am a violet what are you a toadstool I spoil the pretty effect of the picture and he stood in the doorway thoroughly enjoying the beauty of the woman near him colored lamps in red and green of eastern workmanship softened the light leaving strange shadows to lurk in the corners the walls were hung in oriental draperies of green and gold a silken Persian rug covered the floor a maze of colors weaving an intricate pattern full of the mysticism of the orient a teakwood table with a wilderness of soft cushions an easy chair of oriental make and some stools finished the apartment the odors of incense and popery pervaded the air like invisible eastern magicians and intoxicated the occupants with a sense of luxury and indolence the sensuous nature of Pierre succumbed to its influence intensified as it was by the rare loveliness of his companion a waiter entered a brass tray on the table with coffee and cigarettes faith lay back among the cushions on the lounge she was very tired it had been a long trying day for her and she closed her eyes with a sigh of relief it was only for a moment but the moment was too strong a temptation for Pierre Gaspar faith felt his warm breath near her lips and she opened her eyes and looked steadily into his Pierre how dare you is this a part of your common courtesy or is it my enemy it is neither oh faith I love you I love you madly, wildly you are so beautiful that I cannot resist you you kill me with love and he caught her in his arms faith pushed him gently away kill you she exclaimed in icy tones it may be unfortunate that you speak in figurative language Mr. Gaspar otherwise per chance it were better so for you but I would live faith he cried passionately to possess you would be life indeed to me I have loved you for years never since your marriage have I spoken of it but it has lived on just as it did before I have longed to tell you of my love these last cruel years but I restrained myself you mean you never had the opportunity came her cold satirical rejoinder you have me at a disadvantage now how cruel you are broke hotly from Pierre and if I were kind she queried with a curl of her lip I would make you my wife when he dies we would leave this country now and live elsewhere in any climb in any land that please you till then we have not long to wait for he is a physical wreck and death is ever creeping on him I love you I have money millions I have everything but you dearest faith be mine and he tried to take her hands in his but she recoiled Mr. Gaspard this is not a subject for me to listen to I may respect your love for me but I can never never love you your money is nothing to me when I had millions it burned my fingers and the blisters are scarce healed come Pierre don't destroy what respect I have left for you I did trust you but we are not even friends now you swept that away at the Boniface today if you will not have me when I ask you in this way I will compel you to be mine in another way he cried moving closer to her on the lounge and slipping his arm around her quickly Faith jumped up and hurried to the door if you touch me I shall scream she said coolly, determinedly my kisses will seal your lips returned Pierre, eyeing her cynically not before I have made the attempt she said resolutely you know what will be the consequences if you scream sneered Pierre Gaspard your reputation will suffer the public will hear and it is no gentle critic of subjects such as you will offer a scandal is the meeting place of busybodies and carrion for the vultures of society Pierre lighted a cigarette sardonically anyway where is a woman in an affair of this kind the woman always gets the worst of it by some unwritten inexorable law whether she is innocent or not Faith remained silent then she said slowly deliberately I would rather go back to my husband debauchee and wreck though he is and lose my freedom even my life then I would choose the existence you hold out saltwater to one dying of thirst my sufferings are great now my memory sears my life with the past few years but my conscience is clear the existence you would force me to would be torture holy and solely a life of greater misery I can scarce imagine sudden suicide would be far far better than a living suicide such as that a dead heart death to conscience death to my soul a living breathing pulsing death its end would be tragic Pierre do you not see its horror Faith had stood before him like a statue her cheeks white as whitest marble but she leaned across the table now and her eyes flamed with a wonderful light as she bent them on Pierre Gaspard what a great love hers would have been had the fire which is burning at the horror of sin burned at the altar of love thought Pierre as he watched her yet he shrank a little before the intense truth of her eyes and his own wavered as a tragedy queen her beauty is more enthralling than ever with a sudden movement Pierre Gaspard seized her hand firmly in both of his I love you Faith love you you are more beautiful in your sorrows than in your joys more than ever I love you Faith my idol she was holding her arms but she was too quick for him she touched the electric bell with her free hand and gasped in a tone as cold as it was intense Pierre Gaspard you have crossed the rubicon and now you are my enemy and Pierre was vanquished he dropped her hand and Faith Winston completely exhausted sank into the chair closing her eyes wierdly miserably a waiter came in to the bell coffee and asked someone to call a cab, she said carelessly. Yes, ma'am, and the waiter vanished with the tray. Then she turned to Pierre and continued quietly but firmly, I am going home to my boarding-house. You can go. Good night. And Pierre Gaspard did as she bade him, for he had paid his price and received nothing in return. The merit of all shallow natures who hope to force the seeds of love from rocky ground and never know its soul. End of section 22, recording by Melissa Green. Section number 23 of the Rose Coloured World and Other Fantasies. Those as a Libre Fox recording or Libre Fox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreFolks.org. Recording by Elaine Conway. England. The Rose Coloured World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody. Faith. Chapter 5 For a week Pierre Gaspard left faith in peace. It was not peace to her, for her mind was agitated with the memory of Ramos. The duel she had fought with Pierre, she knew her opponent well, and if his love was strong, his revenge would be cruel. If he did revenge himself, which would be to inform her husband where she was, her freedom would end, and the old slavery of her wretched married life begin again. Daily unhappiness and monotonous pain. Oh, the terror for her of such a life. Life, it was not life. Behind her spread the miserable years, only to vivid when she was tied irrevocably, to a man of no fine feeling, a brute in dissipation, who craved her beauty, but had no love for herself, and he commenced all over again the hourly drudgery of continuous misery, and after these months of freedom and peace, her soul rebelled. There was no escape. Pierre had said so, which meant that he would watch her wherever she went, and whatever she did, and a telegram would bring her husband on her trail. She well knew. The instant he found out where she was, there was no running away. The alternative was to return to her husband of her own free will, and then would follow his cruel and cutting taunts, and he would laugh and say it was fear that had brought her back. She, a coward, a coward of all things, she most despised. Pierre's vengeance would include more. He would tell her husband of her life in the Boniface restaurant, how he would torment her, and sneer at her for her waitress life. He would not strike her. No, the only lash he used was his tongue, the bitters lash that could be applied to Faith Winston, with her sensitive, gentle nature, and then a day might come when at last driven to bay, she would turn on him, and then the gossip of her life would leak out, and society in the great city where Bernstein Glenny lived would hold its sides, in laughter, or whispered out of her innocence. Faith recoiled, and all that was refined and good in her shrank from this ruthless bitter picture. The longer she thought of it and anticipated its wretchedness, the more she shuddered at the idea of heaving a return to her husband. What an existence! How should she ever endure it? Her courage failed indeed. Faith understood Bernstein Glenny. Her husband's brilliance had dazzled her. His happy-go-lucky nature had seemed gentleness and kindness of heart, and she admired him at nineteen years of age. Alas, her happiness had an early death. She discovered the cloven feet of her ideal. His brilliance and dash in the way of wrong were more terrible than his love and gaiety, and the path of right seemed fascinating. And, to her girlish eyes, even magnificent, how she had idolized him. Memory is sorrow's sting, for she still saw the beautiful flower with her imagination, which her imagination had created, and which faded, died soon after her marriage. How she had watered it with her fine thoughts, and sand it with her love. How the tenderness and nobleness of her own character had perfected it, and how her innocence had made it fragrant with the sweetness which pervaded everywhere, and distilled from all the things. But the flower lay at her feet with petals, shriveled and lifeless, its sweetness gone forever, its beauty no more. One child had been born to them, but it only lived to utter its tiny cry and die. No baby hands had ever caressed her, no chubby arms had ever wound around her neck, no baby lips and smiles had ever loved her, and warmed her heart. The longing of mother love had never been satisfied, and her home offered nothing to fill and console her life. She saw the world as a wilderness, bleak and cold, nothing soothed to the pain of a lifelong disappointment, and her heart died, as hearts sometimes do, and tried beyond their strength to endure. She loathed her husband's wealth, she could not see its blessing, despite her many charities, she only saw its curse in Bernstein Glenny's life, it flamed over his existence, it had burned her, it had seared all who had touched it from his hands, and a faith felt it would smolder even at his end, with a menacing angry fire like the claw of a demon. Pierre gaspards millions, she laughed bitterly, miserably, but she thought of his offer, millions. They were the only fruit her married life had borne, and its taste was rancid, like the over-plus apples, which rotted in their orchards. As the years went by, her married life had grown more terrible to her. At first they had fought with words to kill each other with words, and neither would give in. Then the baby came and slipped away, and his spirit broke. She sealed her lips and grew cold, silent and cold to him, silent and cold to everyone. People judged her harshly, short-sightedly, because of the hardness of their hearts they turned from her, and Faith Winston Glenny, with a crushed and breaking heart, fled from her home in the south to bury her sorrows below, a surface of ice, and to live her quiet, monotonous, waitress life in a New York restaurant, in a two-less New York boarding house. From day to day she had lived there, with some sense of security and peace, with a breath of freedom like the air of meadowland, and after the damp and chill of airless rooms. But that was all over now. Faith Winston did not weep, it was not her nature to give way to tears, but every day the fire burned more fiercely in her heart, the fire of doubt and certainty, and distress, and Faith wilted under it, as the sun might scorch a lovely flower. On one side Pierre Gaspard's offer, on another, they returned to her husband willingly, or unwillingly, and on the third Faith closed her eyes to shut out its horror, death, death by her own hand, her soul rebelled against evil, as represented by Pierre and suicide, and her conscience smote her at the mere thought of those horrible temptations, and yet her human nature, her whole being, sought its right, its God-given right to be happy, to rest under the bondage of her marriage, manicured her hands and feet, bruised her, and daily crucified her. It was no choice between love and duty, Faith loved no one, and Bernstein Glenny demanded no duty of her, he simply desired her beauty. Thus the battle continued between good and evil, as Faith had been taught to think of them, as they had been bred into her life as conscience, the immutable, invisible monitor of all lives, pleaded and commanded. Each day Faith Winston grew paler, hallows formed in rings around her eyes, her eyes for the first time in her life looked large and brilliant, the only windows out of which the fire in her soul escaped, and found a glimmer of freedom. But he was not unmindful of the change in Faith, no one else paid any attention to it. If they did chance to observe that she was whiter than usual, it was said down to ill health. The girls said indifferently that they suppose she was going into decline, as so many working girls did in New York. Faith never looked strong at any time, so it was not surprising, and they went on their ways like the priest and the Pharisee of old and left Faith by the wayside to her wounds and her sufferings. But not so with Betty, without being obtrusive, she paid her friend every little attention and kindness she could think of in the goodness of her heart, and felt well rewarded when Faith gave her a smile of thanks in recognition of her thoughtfulness and sympathy. Betty had made this acquaintance of a bright young gentleman this last week or so. Intuitively she felt that he was coming to the Boniface restaurant for purpose of his own, and Betty guessed it rightly, although the young man had no idea of having done so. Every day he came and several times a day, and Betty made a point of serving him every time she could manage it. Her manner was the essence of good nature and offhand generosity, and his earnest blue eyes looked straight at her with a sound in their depths that rang of true steel of a kingly height. He had a broadest shoulders than a most man, and swinging gate which betokened taste for the ocean, and a knowledge of walking decks on a rough sea, or pulling halyards in a hurricane. His large shapely hands and his cheery face were bronzed with a sun, and his fair hair was tinted with gold from long exposure in southern climes, where the sunshine was hotter than in New York. About this man was a fresh bracing atmosphere, and a world of kindness that won Betty's confidence and respect. It seemed to breathe of a staunch and faithful heart, of magnetic personality, and a free and easy, honest mind. As it became better acquainted, Betty hinted to him in a way of her own, that she had formed her opinions about his purpose in coming so often to the Boniface restaurant, but the man smiled and appeared unconscious. It was on Good Friday that Pierre Gaspard strolled into the Boniface. Faith saw him as she was entering the restaurant through the swing doors, and she shuddered. He sat down at the table on the opposite side of the room from Betty's acquaintance, a table where Faith always served. Betty was going out as Faith was coming in with a tray of dishes, and casually, Take this, Betty, she said quickly. It goes to table six, and please serve the gentleman who is alone at table four. I feel so ill that I must go home. It was all said and done so suddenly, that Betty had taken the tray, had laid the various dishes on table six, and was standing at table four by the gentleman alone, before the gentleman had sat down, after removing his hat and coat, and Betty watched carefully at table number four. Well, my pretty girl, What do you want here? asked Pierre Gaspard, with a careless smile, glancing at the girl's bright face, with a touch of patronage and admiring indifference. Well, Betty's face had just missed being pretty, her serious blue eyes being her chief charm. Your order, sir, answered Betty gravely. Pierre glanced slowly all around the restaurant, not finding whom he was seeking. He inquired, Where is the waitress who served me the other day? This winslow, win something or other. I heard one of the waitresses call her. She has gone home ill, returned Betty, in a tone of reserve. Oh, so sorry. Has she been ill long, raising his eyebrows with insincere sympathy? No, snapped Betty. So suddenly, that Pierre lifted his monocle, and stared at her through it. She waits well, he observed, without further comment, but with an ironical smile. Your order, sir, demanded Betty again, somewhat peremptorily. He gave it easily, and she hurried away to fill it, netting her eyebrows and looking puzzled. Then a light broke over her face. I remember, she murmured to herself, just a week ago. Faith was looking right that day, but since Betty broke off, and finished with, It is the same man, I know his face, I would know it anywhere, and it is not a good one. But what can he possibly have to do with Faith Winston? Rather, what can Faith have in common with him? Dear me, it is a queer world. And she returned, she paid marked attention to Pierre, seeking to please him by every small care. She answered his jokes and impertinences, as gaelia and freelia as he gave them. When he had finished his meal, he started to face the moment, and then said quietly, Will you give Miss Winston a message from an old friend of hers? You knew her before she came to wait in this restaurant? And who is that present in New York? Certainly, came Betty's prompt reply. I would do anything to please you, and Betty laughed in wiggly at a white fib. I will hold you to that, and around a kiss the first time we meet alone, or are unobserved by the throng. It will be my payment for your service, and he gave her a sly smile. And I will serve you well, joined Betty, meaning what she said in a way that was to startle Pierre later on. She closed her lips in a smile over set teeth and bit her tongue hard. Then tell me, Miss Winston, that her friend, Mr Pierre, here, give me one of your order slips, and I shall write the name, so that you will not forget it. Mr Pierre will await her in General Park tomorrow, afternoon at three o'clock. You will meet her at the bridge across the lake. And who shall I say gave the message, inquired Betty, the seeming innocence. You have one service to perform for me, is it not enough? He asked with a queer smile. If you ask for more the payment will be increased. Kisses, you understand, and there is such as getting too much of a good thing. You may get more than you want, not more than I can give. Be wise. Betty tipped her chin sorcery, but her cheeks had flushed. I guess I'm equal to all occasions, she laughed in a forced way. And as he put on his coat, he gave her a keen bold look. You'll do, my girl, he observed, and walked off. Yes, I'll more than do, muttered Betty to herself. I'll do for you, if ever I get the chance, you rascal. Betty's cheeks were very hot, but not more so than her anger. She had played a part while in deceiving Pierre Gaspart, and now that it was over, she was afire with indignation. He did not know that she was a friend of Faith Winston's, and would defend her from any calamity or care that she could prevent. And he was not going to know that if she could help it. Her conscience was clear. Had the restaurant been empty, and a pistol handy, and a few alterations made in my character, my last glance at you, Mr. Pierre, as you marched out so calmly, would have been a bullet. She thought with fury and indignation, and it would have been better service than you deserved. Betty hastened to the cloakroom, tore a sheet off her order pad, and wrote a note. She folded it carefully, and tucked it into her sleeve. Then she returned to the restaurant, and crossed where her new acquaintance at the cheerful manor sat at his table, absorbed in a newspaper. She made as if to clear the table, and set it afresh with plates, tumblers, and so on. In reaching for a glass, she, with apparent accident, tumbled a spoon on the floor. She stooped to pick it up, and as she did so, the gentleman, with a free courtesy of a seaman, stooped also, and as his head neared hers, she lifted an earnest, anxious face dears, and whispered, Can I trust you? Absolutely. And his answering glance was as honest as hers. Take this, please, she said, hurriedly, in a low voice, handing him her rough note. Read it when you are at sight of the boniface. He nodded kindly, and slipped the note into his pocket, then he left the restaurant. The young man took the note out when some blocks away from the boniface and read it carefully. Read it with great surprise and pity, then with an expression of righteous indignation. He frowned and thought hard as he strolled over to fifth avenue, and hired a bus. After he had climbed its steeple light steps and seated himself as comfortably as heard on the skyscraping elevation, he drew out his newspaper from a capacious pocket and ran his eyes over all the columns. He frowned what he was seeking, and extracting a pair of scissors from a small other case, he carefully clipped out a cutting. Read it over several times as if to make sure of its contents, then folded it nicely and stowed it in a safe inside pocket. Then he re-read Betty's note and stowed it with a clipping and went on his way with a complex smile. End of section 23 Section number 24 of The Rose-Coloured World and Other Fantasies This is a LibriVox recording or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Elaine Conway, England The Rose-Coloured World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody Faith Chapter 6 It was the Saturday before Easter Sunday a clear sunny day and very mild with a lustrous sky of darkest blue overhead. Pierre Gaspard was awaiting Faith Winston on the bridge in Central Park. The park was overrun with crowds of holidaymakers. Every walk was lined with loungers, visitors, tourists, citizens, nurse girls and children. Every bench and seat was occupied. Every roadway in the park was a carriage parade. Every row boat and swan boat on the lake was filled. And even the rider's row thudded beneath the tread of troops of horses. Everywhere over the hills and dales on the grass and in the shade of the trees people were resting and children were shouting and laughing at play. Spring was just beginning to bud out on the shrubs and the trees and tinged the bushes with emerald. The fresh green was like a carpet of velvet in the hollows and over the undulating meadows of the park. The birds migrating northward trilled in the groves and chirrupt from twig and bow. The little gray squirrels alive with a zest of spring scabbard everywhere were set up and ate the peanuts which passers by fed to them chattering gaily and munching to their heart's content. And the saucy bold sparrow more impudent and aggressive than ever snatched and demolished every crumb of bread to cake it could find and then hopped away for more. Glowing and changing with every ripple which struck fire from its smooth surface the lake reflected the azule depths of the sky and lay like a sapphire in its setting of green banks and the sun gleamed down with the joyous warmth of spring and cheered everything it touched. Pierre had not long to wait. He was not a man who liked waiting without being amused and humanity on a holiday and nature in her early garb of spring did not interest or amuse him so he was relieved when Faith's tall figure appeared on a turn of the road which wound near the bank of the lake. Today Faith looked like the goddess of spring in her dark green suit simply dressed and unconscious of her own strange loveliness. She had no wish to attract attention and least of all admiration but her odd prettiness won it over won it under all guises and many eyes turned to look after the graceful woman as she walked leisurely along the road oblivious of their stares and comments and lost in her own thoughts and dreams. A lovely day, is it not? said Pierre Gaspard after a frosty greeting from Faith. A bright day and a brighter remark answered she coldly. Pierre ignored the chill. Where would you like to go? he asked, changing the subject. Is it for me to say? Inquired Faith, icely. This is your affair, not mine. You arranged the meeting and under the circumstances I'm compelled to obey. It is you who are ruling just now. At a greater ruler is only great insofar as he can stoop to his weakest subject. returned Pierre with a pleasant consciousness of power. Faith smiled and sometimes the weakest subject may overturn a throne. Strength and weakness are mere words. Sometimes might lies behind one and sometimes behind the other but to let us change the subject where are you going to take me? To the trees yonder answered Pierre carelessly. It is quiet there and away from the crowds. At a test crowds we can see all around us and yet remain somewhat secluded. Faith glanced sideways at him with a little curl of her lip. You mean, she said, where we can see and yet not be seen. Well, if you like it that way I prefer where from the world's sacred to sweet retirement lovers may steal as Thompson puts it. There is mystery in being invisible and love is strongest in silence. And he laughed pleasantly. They rambled along the hillside to a grove of trees where clump of firs and cedars screened them from passengers on the roads and paths. It was the out of ear shot of the throngs who were passing by. Through the openings in the branches they could look out over the lake below and yet be unseen in the evergreen grove. They sat down on the grass in silence. Pierre lighted a cigar and puffed circle after circle into the air and among the fir needles and sprays of cedar. That smoke makes me think of your dead lover fir. The wreaths look very pretty and they soar upward but they do not last. Said Pierre, glancing at faith to see the effect of his remark. But she sat immovable and made no comment. Your ideals were too high, too ethereal. He continued in that wicked spirit of tormenting which some persons have developed to a fine point. If that is your subject you will have to converse with yourself. Said Faith indifferently. You know what I say is true and that is why you avoid it. Went on her tormenter. Determined to hurt her in a way that such persons always do. Now you speak mere truisms. Let us again change the topic. What did you bring me here for today? What more do you want of me? And she turned on him a listless pair of eyes. I brought you here with the same intention the same design if you like that I had in dining you at Raymore's. Only more determined. I hope it will be final and as soon as the smile crossed his dark features Faith pulled some grass up by the roots but said nothing in reply. What more do I want of you? Pierre continued. No more than I asked before. Command it and demand it before you mean. Interrupted Faith tersely. No more than I asked before. Repeated Pierre steadily. And that is your own dear self. You know my answer. Returned she easily. No, I do not. I will not. Think. Think of the consequences if you refuse me again. He persisted. I have thought of them. Came her reply in a low voice. But this is the last time. Your last chance. I will not wait any longer. I have loved you always and you have known it for years. And to the mind not the ashes of his cigar impatiently. And you had my answer years ago. You have it now. It is the same Pierre Gaspard. And the consequences. He insisted, biting his lips. As for the consequences. Perchance have studied them even more than you have. And Faith's eyes looked fearlessly into his. You are a brave girl. He said admiringly. But you are not superhuman. Appropos of what? She queried. Of your future faith. So you think I must need to be superhuman. To go back to Bernstein Glenny. Then I would need to be ultra superhuman to go with you. Pierre Gaspard. He laughed. But I love you. He does not. And you and your love would cease Pierre. You love me because I am beyond your reach. I am Anne's way. Like the idol-wise on the Alps. Asked he with amusement. Perchance. And it might mean disaster to you if you ever plucked it. Said Faith coldly. It may grow in places both steep and difficult. Even risky. But I will have it, Faith. Do or die. And your love would die as soon as you possessed it. It would have nothing more to live upon. Which means starvation. I know you better than you know yourself. And such love would float out of the stream of your life. And Faith sighed wearily as if tired of the topic. Is your beauty nothing? He continued. It is as pure and soft as the valvety whiteness of the idol-wise and as lovely. Faith slowly turned her head toward him. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes burned with indignation. But her voice was cold and steady as she said. You forget. The idol-wise grows on the Alps. But it grows at a height near the ice-burned snow fields. And it glaciers than the sunny rails below. Life does not end with a woman's beauty. I have nothing to give you. And there is absolutely nothing to make us one. Nothing. A woman's beauty means much in a man's life he went on. Knowing how it hurt her, it has sometimes toppled thrones. Faith turned on him with a look of utmost contempt. You too, Pierre Gaspard. Another burn-skin glenny. It is my beauty always. I would. I had been born plain. And then I might have been happy. At least I would not have inspired love in your heart. Calm, Faith. My love for you is better than none at all. And he tried to laugh. But Faith Winston jumped up and turned on him like a lioness at bay. You insult me. She cried angrily. I admit it was a poor joke, my dear Faith. Poor joke. You do not know what you say. Tell me at once what you've brought me here for, and have done with a sham parade of words. And she clenched her fists, and her bosom heaved with anger. Pierre got up easily instead of a few moments admiring the angry woman with a wonderful fire. In her eyes, she never moved. The embodiment of courage and truth. Beautiful, he murmured. Your answer? She demanded like an empress. You tell me my love is no love. You say you will go back to Bernstein Glenny. Take the consequences and die in torture. He cried more angrily than she. And then, as if he could hold back no longer, he added passionately, raising his voice with the impetuosity of his feelings. You say there is might behind weakness. There is force behind strength, despite your coldness. Your alpine nature, my lovely elder vice. You shall be mine. But he caught her in his arms, and buried her pale face beneath his passionate kisses. Mine, he cried. Forever mine in heaven or hell. I love you. Faith struggled hard to free herself, but he held her closer in his arms. Then she turned her head suddenly to escape his kisses, and uttered a smothered scream. Not too soon, if he had lifted her off her feet, crashing the slight woman and pressing his lips on her, till Faith was breathless and dizzy, and ready to faint from the suddenness of his brutal attack. The branches of the cedar tree parted, and a gentleman stood silently watching them. Pierre sat Faith down, releasing her, and stared fiercely at the intruder. Faith also turned and gazed at the newcomer. Her glance of pain and distress met with a pair of honest, sympathetic, blue eyes. Instinctively, she held out both hands to him. I don't know who you are or where you come from, but your eyes are honest and kind. For the sake of all you hold dearest in life, and best in womanhood, take me from this man. None could be worse than he. You trust me, madam? He said simply, I have never injured a woman in my life, he paused. And he studied her weary, sad face. I never will. Take care, and take the consequences, his to Pierre Gaspard through his set teeth. Thank you, sir. Your offer is more generous than you suspect, and more willingly accepted than you realise, answered Betty's acquaintance of the Boniface restaurant, which was he who had come to aid Faith Winston. Then you had better take care, that is all I have to say about it. And Pierre Gaspard turned on his heel, and strode away through the park, biting his lips ventrally. Fankwished again, he muttered hoarsely. And who the devil is that man? But I'll fix him if he interferes again. And he lit a cigar and hired a cab, returning in a beaten mood to his hotel. And of Section 24. Section 25 of the Rose Coloured World and Other Fantasies. This is a Libravolts recording, or Libravolts recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravolts.org, recording by Elaine Conway, England. The Rose Coloured World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody. Faith Chapter 7 Easter Sunday passed quietly for Faith Winston. The church bells chimed out musically vibrating joy and peace all over the city of New York. The world seemed full of happy people, and the gay throngs which paraded and massed on Fifth Avenue to the strollers in Central Park. Not so for Faith, her heart was buried in darkness. She had found out Betty's address, and had sent for her. And Betty came, willing and delighted. In leaving Bernstein Glenny, Faith had taken little money, and only the money which was rightfully her own. A small inheritance left by her father, John Winston, the only clothes she had were too fine for everyday wear, and least of all in a restaurant. Faith lived on the wages that she earned at the Boniface. Her boardinghouse room was modest and tidy. Her fine tastes were averse to the vulgarities of boardinghouse furnishings and decorations, and a dainty touch here and there in a picture, an ornament, and a few books with interesting titles betrayed something of the personality of the occupant, and her tastes were simple and direct. But she told Faith what she had done, how she had planned with her new acquaintance in the Boniface, Mr. Chalburn, to have him watch Pierre and herself in the Central Park, and to interfere if necessary. She told Faith of the note she had written to Mr. Chalburn in the restaurant, and how kindly and readily he offered his services in her aid, where he came from she did not know. From his accent she was sure that he was an Englishman and a gentleman of rank in the Navy. As for Mr. Pierre, she had distrusted him from the first. She saw that he was annoying her friend. She hoped Faith would forgive her interference, but she had done it out of love for her. Faith Winston had pressed her hand warmly, and with a gentle smile had said, Thank you, dear. And this had meant more to Betty than words, for Betty's heart understood a great deal more than it appeared to understand. God bless her, murmured Betty to herself. Easter Sunday was a sad day for Faith Winston. The inevitable had to be faced. She knew a severe ordeal lay before her if she returned to Bernstein Glenny, a future of difficulty, but it seemed the only alternative, and conscience told her it was the only way. It was Faith Winston's Gethsemane. She shared no tears, but there were lines of pain around her mouth, and eyes which portrayed the inward struggle. Reason, feeling conscience, were doing better for her future, but chance for eternity. Freedom of thought and the joy of living drew her in one direction. Conscience, the wondrous wise instinct of the soul, pointed another path. What thousands and millions stood at those crossroads before? One road apparently so smooth, so easy, so bright, overshadowed with a mystery of an unknown, and perhaps dreadful end. The other a narrow uphill path, where layers cross, where thorns would tear her tender flesh, and sharp stones cut the tired feet, where a mystery indeed entradered it, but a mystery with a hope brighter than the sun. Faith swayed between the road and the path, wavering at the gateway of the one, and then at the entrance of the other. Would that the many who had suffered doubted, reasoned and then decided, would that they could come back to earth again, and tell her, guide her which way she should go? Then the meaning of the day came into her mind. It was Easter Sunday. Tomorrow was kept sacred in the churches, in remembrance of the resurrection, hundreds and hundreds of years ago. All that she had read of the greatest of all great lives came into her thoughts. It passed before her inward vision, in a procession of pictures. Seen after seen, one wonderful act after another, the marvellous wisdom, the white truth, the spiritual beauty, the unutterable pathos of the master's life, the awful agony of standing alone, because no one would believe him, the terrible but magnificent tragedy, or Gethsemane, the seemingly complete failure of the cross, the master's heroic and surpassing love, and then the splendour and glory of the resurrection. Faith beheld it all. There it lived in her mental vision, the only way. I am the way, the truth, and the life. Faith Winston threw herself on her bed and sobbed, cried as she had never done in her life. Her slender body shook with the outburst of feeling, and the relief, the struggle was over. Peace had fallen on the battlefield, the broken and shattered remains of thoughts, ideals and past feelings lay scattered there and still bleeding. Betty bent over her and lifted her head gently, laying it on her lap. She soothed the lonely woman with tender words. She smoothed her hair with a loving touch, and tears of sympathy ran slowly down her cheeks. I asked nothing, dear, of your life, but if there is any way in which I can serve you, let me do it, said Betty earnestly. Faith raised her tears, stained face. Have you any duty that binds you to your home here in New York? Betty smiled. I have an old father to keep, but my sister helps too. She keeps our rooms nice and makes his life as comfortable as we can afford. I supply the money. If I were able to give you more than the Boniface restaurant could pay you, would you come with me where I am going? I asked Faith gravely, wiping her tears away. If you gave me nothing, I would go. Had I not my old father to think of, as it is, your offer will help us all than what I can do now. It is very kind of you, dear, but I'll go with you because you have grown so dear to me, and I cannot part with you in the midst of your troubles. And Betty caressed her lovingly. Thank you, Betty, who turned Faith Winston with a grateful smile. And where do you go? Asked the little waitress. If you don't mind me asking. I said Faith with a one smile. I go to my husband. And she gently kissed the little waitress, Betty. End of section 25. Section 26 of the Rose Coloured World and Other Fantasies This is a Libra Volts recording. All Libra Volts recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVolks.org, recording by Elaine Conway, England. The Rose Coloured World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mae Brody. Faith Chapter 8 Easter Monday arose with the full sun of cheerfulness and gaiety. The streets were thronged with pedestrians. The buses on Fifth Avenue were filled to overflowing on the way up to Central Park. The cars were crowded, the underground and the elevated wellways streamed with passengers. Everywhere life and activity, bustle and hurry vibrated in the air. And the restaurants were as busy as beehives and ant hills, with people flocking in and out in search of food and drink and fun. The Boniface restaurant was giddy with business. The fat, pudgy little manager was bustling here and there, among the shoals of customers, like a ball bobbing on the surface of a rough sea. He had an air of tremendous importance and a dignity quite so large as his porch. He was a Jewish-looking man with small money-making black eyes, an overpowering black moustache and a greasy personality, for the most part his head was bald. His dress suit seemed to have had its annual bath, for it appeared to have been cleaned and pressed for the occasion. Poor Tentious, an impressive diamond ring, flashed on one finger. His expression was not soft, and yet there was a humane upward curl of his lips, which patokened an optimistic nature and some sense of humour. The manager of the Boniface restaurant was a keen, true money-maker, but a jolly, kind-hearted man with all. The waitresses were all on duty, everyone serving even more customers and she was well able to manage. Faith Winston and Betty among the rest. It was to be Faith Winston's last day at the Boniface, but only Betty and the manager knew of it. Faith had never been a favourite for the girls, so she would not be missed, except by admiring male customers. For Chance, Paul, Sue, might think about it. Since the day of her rudeness in the restaurant, she had softened Faith. Indeed she had tried to live a better life, to bet his secret comfort, and perhaps Sue's life was not so wrong as it had been. For the spark of good had not died out in her heart. All day, every waitress was busy. They had scarce a moment to themselves. As the evening drew on and as the customers lessened, the manager dismissed the girls, who seemed most tired. Then came the after-theater parties, and the restaurant was active again. The waitresses hurried to the different tables with salads and oyster suckers, club sandwiches and wild rabbit, and other after-theater dainties, that they too gradually dwindled away. And as it, near twelve o'clock, only Faith Winston and Betty remained to wait, and only two customers sat at the Boniface tables. The manager had slipped into the little stall or box, where the money was gathered in, the change paid out, where orders were carefully read over, and checked, and the receipts under the cans kept. The lady cashier had gone home. Faith knew one of the customers. It was Pierre Gaspard, but her struggle of yesterday had left her resigned and peaceful, and his power to torment and stout at her was gone. She was waiting on him, but kept at a distance after filling his orders. But he attended to the other customer, and they seemed to be having a very merry time, from the subdued laughter that was heard now and then in the quietness of the restaurant. One large pillar in the centre of the room hid the two customers from one another. Pierre had made up his mind to outstay the other man, but the other man sat on, and appeared to have an enormous appetite. And as great an oblivion to the fact that it was time the Boniface was closed, his head was enveloped in a newspaper, and he seemed to have no inclination to give it up. Pierre finished his meal very slowly. He whirled away some moments with a toothpick, then he lit a cigar and smoked carefully to make it to last. He opened his newspaper and read every advertisement in it, and then he peered around the pillar at the other man. He was still there, though Pierre could only see the back of his head. So he proceeded to read the houses and lands for sale, which were numberless, extraordinary cheap, and most satisfactory. He read the situations vacant, which were uninteresting, and the second-hand goods to sell, which were romantic. And finally he reached the heading, Domestics Wanted. But the overwhelming length of the column subscribed to this heading flawed Pierre's patience. It was appalling. The whole world seemed in need of Domestics, but the Domestics seemed to have no need of the world, as indeed they appeared to be as rare as sunflowers in a snowbank. So he pocketed his monocle and seized his scrutiny of the hopeless paper. Still the other man sat on. Pierre was not to be beaten. He lighted another cigar and smoked particularly and deliberately. He made the cigar last, as long as any human cigar could last. And now Pierre Gaspard's patience was well nice spent. Even the finger bowl, which he had doubled in several times with apparent forgetfulness, seized to call his rising anger up to the other man, and seized to amuse the manager, who looked restlessly in one direction and then in the other, at his everlasting customers. Seemingly they were glued to their chairs, and this was to be an all-night affair. The manager coughed obtrusively, then offensively, and lastly, as his brows hung down in a heavy, pugnacious frown, Pierre felt he could stand it no longer. He called faith over to his table. The bill, please. How much? He demanded, irritated at his late futile maneuvers. Then the manager, conscious, stricken, disappeared through the swing doors on pretension of having something to do. Pierre had to wait. The manager would return shortly. That is, behind the scenes. The manager did not wish to give a fence in appearing to dismiss the customer by his coughing spell. He was waiting behind the swing doors. This suited Pierre Gaspard exactly. When faith began to clear the table, he took hold of her wrist and held it firmly. Tonight, faith, to is your last opportunity. How very kind of you, Pierre! You surpassed yourself in thoughtfulness. I thought you had sealed my doom, and a lip curled with a touch of contempt. This is final, he said doggily. Not to be continued in our next inquired faith with irony. Your consideration is as kind as your purpose is noble. Well, what of you to say? He asked, ignoring her remark. Faith said nothing. Cruel faith. My idol-wise are the cold Alps. Have you no word for me? He continued mockingly. Not one, Pierre Gaspard. Then when I say I love you, I will give you my all, lay it at your feet. What will you answer? It is freedom and life such as you long for. If you will come with me. And Pierre watched her face closely. But her face did not change, and she answered simply, I have nothing to say. It needs no repeating. Then you refuse me. And a sinister expression came into his brown eyes. I do. Just as I did long ago, Pierre. Pierre pushed his chair back and faced her squarely. Then I'll tell the manager of your boniface restaurant. He said deliberately, with a crawl, curl of his sense of his lips. When came faith's listless query? Tonight, said Pierre. And where? She asked mechanically. Here and now, faith, my dear, with a disagreeable laugh. Faith partially closed her eyes and turned a shade paler. But her manner, voice and face remained the same. You threaten, she said lightly, to gain time for her thought, and to shake his resolution, if possible. Not this time. I act now. And he stood before her, dogged and cool. Tell him. Returned faith quietly. Pierre Gaspard was amazed. What nerve, he muttered, under his breath. He crossed the room to the store, where the manager was now seemingly occupied with cash. But from which point of vantage, his eyes had been wandering, with an expression of puzzled surprise in their direction. Faith had never taught so long or so earnestly to a man in the boniface. Pierre leaned over the counter and spoke to the manager in a low voice. The latter started in astonishment. Mrs. Bernstein-Glenny, he explained rather loudly, is it true, and a price offered for knowledge of her whereabouts? Faith Winston-Glenny was overwrought with a strain of the last few days. The mental and emotional excitement of the past week added to Sunday's struggle, and tonight to Pierre's cruel revelation of her identity were beyond her strength to endure or control. Her icy reserve melted in the blaze of a suppressed life, now on fire. Her resentment, her indignation, her sense of injustice, and the indignity to her womanhood broke through the cool restraint of years. Like a river overflowing its banks, and carrying all before it on its flooding and rushing torrents, Faith Winston-Glenny at last lifted her voice in public in defence of herself and her life. She turned fiercely on Pierre as he stood near the manager. Brute, who sent you into this world to destroy your life of another? The one master you serve, the devil, not content with the blackness of your own heart, you seek to blacken another's. Failing in this, you seek revenge. Revenge, Pierre, have your revenge, and then she turned to the manager. I am Mrs. Bernstein-Glenny. I go to my husband tonight, but before I go, I claim the respect due to a lady, and the right due to a woman. This man, Brute, if you will, though it were insult to the forefooted kind, to so name him, this man has insulted me. He must leave this place at once, or Bernstein-Glenny will know the reason why. Faith looked at Pierre, and lifting her arm, pointed to the door. The manager stood aghast between Faith and Pierre. Betty and the other man had come forward, and were embarrassed witnesses of the scene. Betty's eyes were full of pity for Faith, the other man's calm but determined. The latter laid his hand gently on Pierre's arm, and said in a voice quiet and firm, but accustomed to command and to be obeyed. He'd better go, sir. Pierre turned on him in a flash, with a quickness and ferocity of a wild beast. Had the other man not been agile and leaped aside, Pierre would have struck him. So shouted Pierre-Gaspard. You interfere a second time, it will be your last. Bernstein-Glenny will love no mistress for a wife, and he shall know the story for me. Betty's eyes filled with horror, Faith had regained her self-command, and a voice was steady as she said coolly, How dare you, Pierre! It is a lying insinuation! The manager gasped, and his eyes wavered a moment, but the other stood calmly, studying Faith and Pierre. Go, you bully, cried Pierre, glowing at him. I go only with Mrs. Glenny's permission, answered the gentleman courteously, and then I take her to her home. Faith's long grey eyes moved slowly and wearily from Pierre to Mr. Shelburne, but gratitude-deep and sincere filled them with tears. You may do that, his to Pierre, but jealousy is a spice of life. You and she will have enough of it when Bernstein-Glenny hears of these queer things. Bernstein-Glenny already hears, answered Mr. Shelburne in a low voice, and as they all turned their eyes on him in surprise, he added, That is, if the dead can hear anything, Faith sank into a chair, faint and worn out. Dead? Is my husband dead? She asked, and then, moment-sadly, and after all these dark years, and after all this last week. Yes, Mrs. Glenny. He died on the afternoon of Good Friday. And how do you know? Oh, I happened to have a clipping out of a newspaper. It was sent to me. Some friends of mine knew him. Here it is. Thank God! murmured the weird woman, as she read it. So Pierre Gaspard was banquished the third time, and he strode out of the Boniface restaurant, like a curl with its tail down. Thank you, said Faith, turning to the other man gratefully. Mr. Shelburne had kept cool and steady, like any seaman, but when he looked into her pale, sad face, he longed to take her into his arms. Instead, he simply said, It was nothing, and he right-minded man would have done the same thing. Faith and Betty went home together, and the manager of the Boniface closed the restaurant, all slowly and thoughtfully, than he had ever done before. This was Easter Monday. The Monday held sacred as the Day of the Resurrection in all the churches. Thousands believed it all over the world, and thousands would believe it in the centuries to come. It was the Day of the Resurrection, and it was the beginning of life and freedom for Faith Winston. The End End of Section 26 End of the Rose Coloured World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody