The girl was silent a moment; then she said: “You’ll see my idea of it.” “I see it already! You’ll go and live with her.” “I shall talk the situation over with her to-morrow and tell her that I think that will be best.” “Best for her, no doubt!” “What’s best for her is best for me.” “And for your brother and sister?” As the girl made no reply to this her grandmother went on: “What’s best for them is that you should acknowledge some responsibility in regard to them and, considering how young they are, try and do something for them.” “They must do as I’ve done—they must act for themselves. They have their means now, and they’re free.” “Free? They’re mere children.” “Let me remind you that Eric is older than I.” “He doesn’t like his mother,” said the old lady, as if that were an answer. “I never said he did. And she adores him.” “Oh, your mother’s adorations!” “Don’t abuse her now,” the girl rejoined, after a pause. The old lady forbore to abuse her, but she made up for it the next moment by saying: “It will be dreadful for Edith.” “What will be dreadful?” “Your desertion of her.” “The desertion’s on her side.” “Her consideration for her father does her honour.” “Of course I’m a brute, _n’en parlons plus_,” said the girl. “We must go our respective ways,” she added, in a tone of extreme wisdom and philosophy. Her grandmother straightened out her knitting and began to roll it up. “Be so good as to ring for my maid,” she said, after a minute. The young lady rang, and there was another wait and another conscious hush. Before the maid came her mistress remarked: “Of course then you’ll not come to _me_, you know.” “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.