'" Mr. Mangler departed without their speaking frankly, and
Rose Tramore had a hot hour during which she almost entertained,
vindictively, the project of "accepting" the limpid youth until after
she should have got her mother into circulation. The cream of the
vision was that she might break with him later. She could read that
this was what her mother would have liked, but the next time he came
the door was closed to him, and the next and the next.
In August there was nothing to do but to go abroad, with the sense on
Rose's part that the battle was still all to fight; for a round of
country visits was not in prospect, and English watering-places
constituted one of the few subjects on which the girl had heard her
mother express herself with disgust. Continental autumns had been
indeed for years, one of the various forms of Mrs. Tramore's
atonement, but Rose could only infer that such fruit as they had
borne was bitter. The stony stare of Belgravia could be practised at
Homburg; and somehow it was inveterately only gentlemen who sat next
to her at the table d'hote at Cadenabbia. Gentlemen had never been
of any use to Mrs. Tramore for getting back into society; they had
only helped her effectually to get out of it.
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