There had been some bad moments, there had been several warm
corners and a certain number of cold shoulders and closed doors and
stony stares; but the breach was effectually made--the rest was only
a question of time. Mrs. Tramore could be trusted to keep what she
had gained, and it was the dowagers, the old dragons with prominent
fangs and glittering scales, whom the trick had already mainly
caught. By this time there were several houses into which the
liberated lady had crept alone. Her daughter had been expected with
her, but they couldn't turn her out because the girl had stayed
behind, and she was fast acquiring a new identity, that of a parental
connection with the heroine of such a romantic story. She was at
least the next best thing to her daughter, and Rose foresaw the day
when she would be valued principally as a memento of one of the
prettiest episodes in the annals of London. At a big official party,
in June, Rose had the joy of introducing Eric to his mother. She was
a little sorry it was an official party--there were some other such
queer people there; but Eric called, observing the shade, the next
day but one.
No observer, probably, would have been acute enough to fix exactly
the moment at which the girl ceased to take out her mother and began
to be taken out by her.
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