"I'm sure Guy is
longing for another dance with you," she rejoined, with the most
unblinking irrelevance.
"I'm afraid we're not dancing again quite yet," said Rose, glancing
at her mother's exposed shoulders, but speaking as if they were
muffled in crape.
Lady Maresfield leaned her head on one side and seemed almost
wistful. "Not even at my sister's ball? She's to have something
next week. She'll write to you."
Rose Tramore, on the spot, looking bright but vague, turned three or
four things over in her mind. She remembered that the sister of her
interlocutress was the proverbially rich Mrs. Bray, a bankeress or a
breweress or a builderess, who had so big a house that she couldn't
fill it unless she opened her doors, or her mouth, very wide. Rose
had learnt more about London society during these lonely months with
her mother than she had ever picked up in Hill Street. The younger
Mrs. Tramore was a mine of commerages, and she had no need to go out
to bring home the latest intelligence. At any rate Mrs. Bray might
serve as the end of a wedge. "Oh, I dare say we might think of
that," Rose said. "It would be very kind of your sister."
"Guy'll think of it, won't you, Guy?" asked Lady Maresfield.
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