But this
demonstration only ushered in, after a moment, the surprising words
"I don't think papa had any conscience."
"What in the name of all that's unnatural do you mean?" Mrs. Tramore
cried, over her glasses. "The dearest and best creature that ever
lived!"
"He was kind, he had charming impulses, he was delightful. But he
never reflected."
Mrs. Tramore stared, as if at a language she had never heard, a
farrago, a galimatias. Her life was made up of items, but she had
never had to deal, intellectually, with a fine shade. Then while her
needles, which had paused an instant, began to fly again, she
rejoined: "Do you know what you are, my dear? You're a dreadful
little prig. Where do you pick up such talk?"
"Of course I don't mean to judge between them," Rose pursued. "I can
only judge between my mother and myself. Papa couldn't judge for
me." And with this she got up.
"One would think you were horrid. I never thought so before."
"Thank you for that."
"You're embarking on a struggle with society," continued Mrs.
Tramore, indulging in an unusual flight of oratory. "Society will
put you in your place."
"Hasn't it too many other things to do?" asked the girl.
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