VI
TERESA'S pleasure was not to be spoiled. Crayven's grave mood only added to the wild gaiety of her own, which lasted all the way home. She drank from a mountain stream and sprang up, declaring that the draught was more intoxicating than champagne. She sang, running down the steep descent ahead of Crayven. Once she stopped to fasten up the loosened knot of her hair, and enquired with an elfish look:
"Do I remind you of anybody now?"
"You are like her," he answered coolly.
"And what was her name—you haven't told me."
"Rosamond."
"Rosamond! I have always liked that name so much—'Rose of the world'"
She stopped, gazing at him with a sudden softness, a sudden feeling for his romance.
"Was she beautiful enough for that name?" she asked.
"Beautiful—yes, she had beauty—but there was a grace about her—everything she did was right, somehow. The way in which she finally rejected me was a model of its kind. She was a thorough artist."
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