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Ten days passed, a fortnight, three weeks and there was no sign of Rosing.

"Why doesn't he come?" Lina wanted to know. "You don't think he has forgotten me, do you?"

Soon rehearsals would begin and already she had accompanied Angellini down to the Opera-House on more than one occasion.

Often they saw the pupils of the ballet-school severely chaperoned, hideously dressed, and always then Lina was enchanted by her own freedom. Some of them, she reflected, were her own age, seventeen, and had as yet achieved nothing, nothing at all. And she would have been completely happy in her new life had it not been for Rosing's inexplicable absence.

And then one evening, when she was resting on Angellini's sofa, with two kittens on her knee and a balletscore propped up before her eyes, the door opened and Rosing walked in. He looked as usual, gray and suave and beautifully dressed.

She was so delighted to see him that she sprang off the sofa, ran across to him and flung her arms round his neck.

"And the lessons?"

"Angellini's delighted with me. But she will teil you herself, only just now she's down-stairs in the kitchen. Why didn't you "

"I will go and speak to her. But, Lina, do me the favor of putting on your bonnet at once. I wish to take you out to dinner."

"How queer you are!" she said, rebuffed. "Aren't you in the least pleased to see me?"

"My little one, I am delighted."

"But you don't show it."

At this moment Angellini, hearing his voice, waddled up-stairs with every appearance of pleasure, and Lina

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