"Rather!" Guy responded, with an intonation as fine as if he had
learnt it at a music hall; while at the same moment the name of his
mother's carriage was bawled through the place. Mrs. Tramore had
parted with her old gentleman; she turned again to her daughter.
Nothing occurred but what always occurred, which was exactly this
absence of everything--a universal lapse. She didn't exist, even for
a second, to any recognising eye. The people who looked at her--of
course there were plenty of those--were only the people who didn't
exist for hers. Lady Maresfield surged away on her son's arm.
It was this noble matron herself who wrote, the next day, inclosing a
card of invitation from Mrs. Bray and expressing the hope that Rose
would come and dine and let her ladyship take her. She should have
only one of her own girls; Gwendolen Vesey was to take the other.
Rose handed both the note and the card in silence to her mother; the
latter exhibited only the name of Miss Tramore. "You had much better
go, dear," her mother said; in answer to which Miss Tramore slowly
tore up the documents, looking with clear, meditative eyes out of the
window. Her mother always said "You had better go"--there had been
other incidents--and Rose had never even once taken account of the
observation.
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