“Dearest Dombeen,” she said, “I want one guest only. You. My greatest wish is to find a house in some place that pleased you, where you would come, whenever you cared, to stay with me for a little, or,” she added with one of her radiant smiles, “if you liked, altogether.” She placed her other hand on mine. “Because, you know,” she went on, “I am quite a rich woman now. And we have been your guests so long, Rose and I. I was your guest for fourteen years; won’t you be mine in return? Rose has been your guest for fourteen years; won’t you let her mother put you up now and then just to show a little gratitude? Won’t you?” “Yes, Dombeen, won’t you?” said Rose-the-second. “You oughtn’t to refuse us now. Because although you’re the youngest man in the world you’re not a boy any more, you know. You’re seventy, and you must be looked after. You had a horrid, frightening cold last winter.” “But—” I began. I had no objections to urge, but I wanted to be pressed. “No ‘buts,’” said Rose. “There’s only one thing that you can be permitted to say to stop the whole plan. Nothing else will serve.” “And what is that?” I asked. “That you’re tired of Roses.” “Never!” I said. * * * * * And that is how it happens that I have left my old home for ever and am finishing this story in a house overlooking the sea. But I hear Rose calling. “Dombeen,” she says, “there’s a telegram from Rose saying she’s coming by the 5.5, and she can stay a week.” “Splendid!” I reply. * * * * * _Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner_, _Frome and London_