Before she left the house a servant brought her a message from her
grandmother--the old lady desired to see her in the drawing-room.
She had on her bonnet, and she went down as if she were about to step
into her cab. Mrs. Tramore sat there with her eternal knitting, from
which she forebore even to raise her eyes as, after a silence that
seemed to express the fulness of her reprobation, while Rose stood
motionless, she began: "I wonder if you really understand what
you're doing."
"I think so. I'm not so stupid."
"I never thought you were; but I don't know what to make of you now.
You're giving up everything."
The girl was tempted to inquire whether her grandmother called
herself "everything"; but she checked this question, answering
instead that she knew she was giving up much.
"You're taking a step of which you will feel the effect to the end of
your days," Mrs. Tramore went on.
"In a good conscience, I heartily hope," said Rose.
"Your father's conscience was good enough for his mother; it ought to
be good enough for his daughter."
Rose sat down--she could afford to--as if she wished to be very
attentive and were still accessible to argument.
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