The girl was tempted to inquire whether her grandmother called
herself "everything"; but she checked this question, answering
instead that she knew she was giving up much.

"You're taking a step of which you will feel the effect to the end of
your days," Mrs. Tramore went on.

"In a good conscience, I heartily hope," said Rose.

"Your father's conscience was good enough for his mother; it ought to
be good enough for his daughter."

Rose sat down--she could afford to--as if she wished to be very
attentive and were still accessible to argument. But this
demonstration only ushered in, after a moment, the surprising words
"I don't think papa had any conscience."

"What in the name of all that's unnatural do you mean?" Mrs. Tramore
cried, over her glasses. "The dearest and best creature that ever
lived!"

"He was kind, he had charming impulses, he was delightful. But he
never reflected."

Mrs. Tramore stared, as if at a language she had never heard, a
farrago, a galimatias. Her life was made up of items, but she had
never had to deal, intellectually, with a fine shade. Then while her
needles, which had paused an instant, began to fly again, she
rejoined: "Do you know what you are, my dear? You're a dreadful
little prig. Where do you pick up such talk?"