"What do you mean by 'coming' to you?"

"I can't receive you on that footing."

"She'll not come WITH me, if you mean that."

"I don't mean that," said the old lady, getting up as her maid came
in. This attendant took her work from her, gave her an arm and
helped her out of the room, while Rose Tramore, standing before the
fire and looking into it, faced the idea that her grandmother's door
would now under all circumstances be closed to her. She lost no time
however in brooding over this anomaly: it only added energy to her
determination to act. All she could do to-night was to go to bed,
for she felt utterly weary. She had been living, in imagination, in
a prospective struggle, and it had left her as exhausted as a real
fight. Moreover this was the culmination of a crisis, of weeks of
suspense, of a long, hard strain. Her father had been laid in his
grave five days before, and that morning his will had been read. In
the afternoon she had got Edith off to St. Leonard's with their aunt
Julia, and then she had had a wretched talk with Eric. Lastly, she
had made up her mind to act in opposition to the formidable will, to
a clause which embodied if not exactly a provision, a recommendation
singularly emphatic. She went to bed and slept the sleep of the
just.

"Oh, my dear, how charming! I must take another house!" It was in
these words that her mother responded to the announcement Rose had
just formally made and with which she had vaguely expected to produce
a certain dignity of effect. In the way of emotion there was