“The things which I have seen I now can see no more.” That was the line. “The things which used to appeal to me now appeal no more--or rather not quite in the same way. I think I used to be very sentimental. It is stupid and useless to be sentimental. People must grow old. There’s nothing sad in that. It is natural. It is life. It is life and one must accept life. The unnatural thing, the foolish and wrong thing, is to remain a sentimental child for ever, with a child’s ready foolish tears at what are common, necessary facts of life. I can be much kinder, much more really kind, by seeing things clearly--and in their right perspective than by occluding them with false compassions. I am always my dear, my darling mother’s devoted daughter, ever at her disposal, and she knows it and loves me for it. When I am to her or to any friend but as ships that pass in the night--Keggo’s phrase--then let me take myself to task.” Keggo’s phrase! Keggo was being intermittently seen at this time and these thoughts of Rosalie’s were very close to the occasion when finally she lost sight of Keggo. It could be said like this--that Keggo here made a contribution to Rosalie’s life that passed Rosalie on her way. They had kept touch for quite a time after their separation as governess and pupil. They then lost touch. “Why, it must be more than a year!” cried Rosalie, suddenly encountering Miss Keggs near the Marble Arch one evening and delightedly greeting her. It was in the summer and Rosalie had gone out from the boarding house after dinner for some fresh air in the park. She was enormously glad to see Keggo again and carried her greeting straight on into excuses for her share in their long sundering. “More than a year! You know, the fact is, Keggo, that when I first left the Sultana’s, and for quite a time afterwards, I used to gush. I did! I was so frightfully full of all I was doing and it was all so new and so wonderful and I was so excited about it that it was sheer letting off steam--gush--to write you reams and reams of letters about it as I used to do. Then it got normal and the--the tumultuousness of it wore off and I was just--I am, you know--just absolutely absorbed in it and there was no more steam to let off; all the energy went into the work, I suppose. So gradually, I suppose, without quite realising it, I gave up writing. But, oh, if you knew how glad I am to see you now!”