“Oh, what I go through!” this social martyr cried. Then she laid a persuasive hand on the girl’s arm. “Let me show you at a few places first, and then we’ll see. I’ll bring them all here.” “I don’t think I understand you,” replied Rose, though in Mrs. Donovan’s words she perfectly saw her own theory of the case reflected. For a quarter of a minute she asked herself whether she might not, after all, do so much evil that good might come. Mrs. Donovan would take her out the next day, and be thankful enough to annex such an attraction as a pretty girl. Various consequences would ensue and the long delay would be shortened; her mother’s drawing-room would resound with the clatter of teacups. “Mrs. Bray’s having some big thing next week; come with me there and I’ll show you what I mane,” Mrs. Donovan pleaded. “I see what you mane,” Rose answered, brushing away her temptation and getting up. “I’m much obliged to you.” “You know you’re wrong, my dear,” said her interlocutress, with angry little eyes. “I’m not going to Mrs. Bray’s.” “I’ll get you a kyard; it’ll only cost me a penny stamp.” “I’ve got one,” said the girl, smiling. “Do you mean a penny stamp?” Mrs. Donovan, especially at departure, always observed all the forms of amity. “You can’t do it alone, my darling,” she declared. “Shall they call you a cab?” Rose asked. “I’ll pick one up. I choose my horse. You know you require your start,” her visitor went on. “Excuse my mother,” was Rose’s only reply. “Don’t mention it. Come to me when you need me. You’ll find me in the Red Book.” “It’s awfully kind of you.” Mrs. Donovan lingered a moment on the threshold. “Who will you _have_ now, my child?” she appealed. “I won’t have any one!” Rose turned away, blushing for her. “She came on speculation,” she said afterwards to Mrs. Tramore. Her mother looked at her a moment in silence. “You can do it if you like, you know.” Rose made no direct answer to this observation; she remarked instead: “See what our quiet life allows us to escape.” “We don’t escape it. She has been here an hour.” “Once in twenty years! We might meet her three times a day.” “Oh, I’d take her with the rest!” sighed Mrs. Tramore; while her daughter recognised that what her companion wanted to do was just what Mrs. Donovan was doing. Mrs. Donovan’s life was her ideal.