"Sweet? Sweet as Paradise--a false Paradise, perhaps; but still Paradise! Those days on the Mediterranean, the sea no bluer than the sky that held it in its sunlit hand--and Venice--Venice, with the great, round moon overhead, and the mysterious semi-darkness all about--the splashing of soft waters there beside us and the silent whisper of the lazy oar--and just you and I--alone amid all the glories--side by side--heart in heart-- soul in soul." With a great choking sob: "It was sweet, Lady Fair! Sweet!" The Woman continued: "And there are two roads through life even as there are two roses. The one is a rough road and weary, and on it happiness seldom treads. It is a plodding road, flat and long; and there you walk with stale and barren people, through a stale and barren land, until you come to an ending yet more stale and more barren than are road or people. That is the road of the White Rose. But the Road of the Red Rose! That's different! On the Road of the Red Rose there is laughter and light, and happiness and joy! Flowers bloom; birds sing. There come the soft wash of the sea--the silent whisper of the breeze--the call of Love!" She rose lithely to her feet. In one hand she held the bending white blossom; in the other the crimson. Suddenly she thrust them toward him, body bent, lips parted, and cried, sibilantly: "Which rose do you choose, My Fool? Which Road?" Roughly he struck from her hand the drooping flower of white. That of red was crushed between them as he seized her in his arms and drew her to him. "The red rose!" he cried. "And the Red Road! And we'll travel to the end, and beyond!" [Illustration] CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN. THE RED ROAD. From across the table she was laughing at him, brightly, merrily-- laughing to see the havoc that she had wrought in the soul of a man. He turned to her, almost savagely. "You do love me, Lady Fair, don't you?" he almost pleaded. "You must love me, knowing as you do all that I have given up for you." He pointed to a heap of carelessly-tossed letters upon desk-top. "Do you see those?" he demanded. "The first from Washington--the President--demanding my resignation. Following that, curt requests that I withdraw from positions of trust that I held. My wife crushed--my child disgraced--my friends gone--! God in heaven! What haven't I given you, Lady Fair!" "I thank you," she responded, most graciously, bending low, "And I have given you what? Myself. Is that less than a fair exchange?" "Not if I may keep that self mine, and mine alone, for all time. But may I?" "Can you doubt it?" she queried, with a lifting of arched brows. "There was Parmalee--" "A silly boy. I never cared for him!" "And Rogers--" "Interesting--only interesting--and only at first. Then tiresome!" "And Seward Van Dam." "Next to you, a man," she cried. "But like you, insanely jealous, and unreasonable."