CHAPTER XXIX A CONFESSION Time flew on till it was just two days before Christmas, or, at least, the festival which in Lucifram takes the place of Christmas in our world. On this particular afternoon Rosalie dressed with the greatest possible care, and looked three consecutive times sideways in the glass, to see if her nose was any better disposed to turn downwards; but it wasn’t. Still, it detracted nothing from the general effect, and, indeed, might be said to help, if only on the side of morality, to keep her from growing conceited. The frog, having come to that stage when one evidently regards oneself as quite perfect enough, felt no qualms as to its appearance, took not one doubtful glance into the glass. Rosalie, when she was ready, put her head through the door to tell Miss Crokerly she was going to pay a call; she did not say where. Miss Crokerly, busy with festival matters, simply nodded her head. It was just a little after three. Rosalie left the house, and walked on quickly till she came to Greensward Avenue. Coming here, her steps slackened; but she continued walking till she came in sight of Marble House. Here she came to a dead stand, and looked blindly on the pavement. Her heart was beating so quickly that if the passers-by had not been walking along so heavily they must have stopped to inquire about it. But from a full stop she ran lightly and hurriedly up the steps and rang the bell. There was no escape now, for within thirty seconds it had opened. There stood Everard, just the same as ever, as silent, as polite, no more surprised. Rosalie took her courage in both hands. There was that hideous umbrella stand that a dowager-duchess had once exclaimed was the most charming novelty she’d ever seen. “Is Mr. Barringcourt at home?” said she. He looked as if he had never seen her before, but after a moment’s pause he said: “Yes. Will you come this way?” And led her through the outer vestibule into the wide and gloomy hall. There he left her, and went in the direction of the Master’s study, but soon returned. The afternoon had quite faded now, and as he conducted her along the western corridor he turned on the lights. Mr. Barringcourt received her almost silently. He made some remark about the weather—it was of little importance. He drew a chair for her. Rosalie sat down. “I came to see you,” she began, clasping her hands tightly inside her muff, “because—because—” “Because,” said he, in the most distant of voices, “you wished to see Mariana.” “No. I’m afraid I was too selfish to think of Mariana. I was thinking only of myself.” She did not notice the alteration in his expression, because she had not noticed the previous hardness of his voice. But she got a vague idea he was not particularly pleased to see her, yet was determined to go on.