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softer black dress； leaned alone against the wall of the vestibule at
Covent Garden while； a few paces off； an old gentleman engaged her
mother in conversation。 Madame Patti had been singing； and they were
all waiting for their carriages。 To their ears at present came a
vociferation of names and a rattle of wheels。 The air； through
banging doors； entered in damp； warm gusts； heavy with the stale；
slightly sweet taste of the London season when the London season is
overripe and spoiling。
Guy Mangler had only three minutes to reestablish an interrupted
acquaintance with our young lady。 He reminded her that he had danced
with her the year before； and he mentioned that he knew her brother。
His mother had lately been to see old Mrs。 Tramore； but this he did
not mention； not being aware of it。 That visit had produced； on Lady
Maresfield's part； a private crisis； engendered ideas。 One of them
was that the grandmother in Hill Street had really forgiven the
wilful girl much more than she admitted。 Another was that there
would still be some money for Rose when the others should come into
theirs。 Still another was that the others would come into theirs at
no distant date； the old lady was so visibly going to pieces。 There
were several more besides； as for instance that Rose had already
fifteen hundred a year from her father。 The figure had been betrayed
in Hill Street； it was part of the proof of Mrs。 Tramore's
decrepitude。 Then there was an equal amount that her mother had to
dispose of and on which the girl could absolutely count； though of
course it might involve much waiting； as the mother； a person of
gross insensibility； evidently wouldn't die of cold…shouldering。
Equally definite； to do it justice； was the conception that Rose was
in truth remarkably good looking； and that what she had undertaken to
do showed； and would show even should it fail； cleverness of the
right sort。 Cleverness of the right sort was exactly the quality
that Lady Maresfield prefigured as indispensable in a young lady to
whom she should marry her second son； over whose own deficiencies she
flung the veil of a maternal theory that HIS cleverness was of a sort
that was wrong。 Those who knew him less well were content to wish
that he might not conceal it for such a scruple。 This enumeration of
his mother's views does not exhaust the list； and it was in obedience
to one too profound to be uttered even by the historian that； after a
very brief delay； she decided to move across the crowded lobby。 Her
daughter Bessie was the only one with her； Maggie was dining with the
Vaughan…Veseys； and Fanny was not of an age。 Mrs。 Tramore the
younger showed only an admirable backher face was to her old
gentlemanand Bessie had drifted to some other people； so that it
was comparatively easy for Lady Maresfield to say to Rose； in a
moment： 〃My dear child； are you never coming to see us？〃
〃We shall be delighted to come if you'll ask us；〃 Rose smiled。
Lady Maresfield had been prepared for the plural number； and she was
a woman whom it took many plurals to disconcert。 〃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。
〃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 everythinga universal lapse。 She didn't exist； even for
a second； to any recognising eye。 The people who looked at herof
course there were plenty of thosewere 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 incidentsand Rose had never even once taken account of the
observation。 She would make no first advances； only plenty of second
ones； and； condoning no discrimination； would treat no omission as
venial。 She would keep all concessions till afterwards； then she
would make them one by one。 Fighting society was quite as hard as
her grandmother had said it would be； but there was a tension in it
which made the dreariness vibratethe dreariness of such a winter as
she had just passed。 Her companion had cried at the end of it； and
she had cried all through； only her tears had been private； while her
mother's had fallen once for all； at luncheon on the bleak Easter
Mondayproduced by the way a silent survey of the deadly square
brought home to her that every creature but themselves was out of
town and having tremendous fun。 Rose felt that it was useless to
attempt to explain simply by her mourning this severity of solitude；
for if people didn't go to parties （at least a few didn't） for six
months after their father died； this was the very time other people
took for coming to see them。 It was not too much to say that during
this first winter of Rose's period with her mother she had no
communication whatever with the world。 It had the effect of making
her take to reading the new American books： she wanted to see how
girls got on by themselves。 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。
What she was not yet used tothere was still a charm in itwas her
mother's extraordina