She had never read so much before, and
there was a legitimate indifference in it when topics failed with her
mother. They often failed after the first days, and then, while she
bent over instructive volumes, this lady, dressed as if for an
impending function, sat on the sofa and watched her. Rose was not
embarrassed by such an appearance, for she could reflect that, a
little before, her companion had not even a girl who had taken refuge
in queer researches to look at. She was moreover used to her
mother's attitude by this time. She had her own description of it:
it was the attitude of waiting for the carriage. If they didn't go
out it was not that Mrs. Tramore was not ready in time, and Rose had
even an alarmed prevision of their some day always arriving first.
Mrs. Tramore's conversation at such moments was abrupt, inconsequent
and personal. She sat on the edge of sofas and chairs and glanced
occasionally at the fit of her gloves (she was perpetually gloved,
and the fit was a thing it was melancholy to see wasted), as people
do who are expecting guests to dinner. Rose used almost to fancy
herself at times a perfunctory husband on the other side of the fire.
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