“No, dear, of course not,” said Mrs. Pinsent soothingly, then she started quite afresh and began plaiting her hair. “Your father wanted me to tell you,” she said, “that he’s going to have your allowance settled upon you--and upon your children--that’s £500 a year, and later on you’ll have even more, of course, like your sisters, but the money is in an English bank, and it is quite your own, but you’re to have trustees as well, your father has seen to all that. Léon was so nice about it. I knew he would be. He’s been so generous and charming and most thoughtful.” Mrs. Pinsent got up and bent over her daughter. “You are happy, Rose?” she whispered. “You do feel safe?” Rose lifted her undeterred, terribly triumphant eyes to her mother’s. “I feel as safe,” she said, “as if an angel loved me.” CHAPTER VI Everything had been done, the last trunk was packed, the last joke, not a very good one, accomplished by Agatha. The two elder sisters, tired out and unequal to their natural play of spirits, had gone to bed. Rose flew downstairs to the telephone. The Swiss manageress, a sharp-tongued, good-hearted woman, rose wearily and shouted through the receiver. After a violent exchange of reproaches with an irate porter at the other end, she accomplished the feat of getting hold of Léon, and put the receiver into the girl’s hand. “He is there, Mademoiselle,” she said with a curious glance at the girl’s flushed face. “Oh, thank you,” Rose murmured. “Léon, Léon, are you there?” “But it is Rose?” His voice answered a little as if he was surprised that it was Rose. “Yes,” she said quickly, “I want to see you. Can you come at once?” “Something has happened?” he asked anxiously. “Something has gone wrong?” Rose reassured him. “Oh, no--nothing, but I felt suddenly as if I _must_ see you.” There was a moment’s pause, a buzzing sound came across the wires, and then Rose heard a strange voice--it sounded like a woman’s saying very slowly, “_Mais--c’est la dernière nuit?_” And then Léon’s again, “I am very busy to-night, Rose--this that you want to see me about, is it important?” She was surprised at his hesitation, and surprised at her own insistence. It seemed to her suddenly very important that she should insist. “Please, please come,” she said urgently. There was another pause, then Léon said again, “Is it a command?” A moment earlier she would not have said that it was a command, but her wish to see him had been mysteriously sharpened into a strange imperative instinct. “Isn’t my wish a command?” she asked, trying to laugh. But Léon did not echo her laughter. “Very well, then,” he said, “in ten minutes.” The big red salon was empty. For the first time Rose noticed the yellow lamp, the blue velvet tablecloth, the enormous imperishable roses in bulging angular vases under the great gilt mirror.