"And you didn't mind in the least how much I was hurt, as long as she wasn't," said Horace. "Yes, I did." "I must say it did not have that appearance." Rose wept softly against his rough coat-sleeve. "I wanted to do what was right, and she looked so dreadfully; and I didn't want to be selfish," she sobbed. Horace looked down at her, and his face softened. "Oh Rose," he said, "you are all alike, you women. When it comes to a question of right or wrong, you will all lay your best-beloved on the altar of sacrifice. Your logic is all wrong, dear. You want to do right so much that the dust of virtue gets into your eyes of love and blinds them. I should come first with you, before your aunt Sylvia, and your own truth and happiness should come first; but you wanted to lay them all at her feet--or, rather, at the feet of your conscience." "I only wanted to do what was right," Rose sobbed again. "I know you did, dear." Horace put his arm around Rose. He drew her to a chair, sat down, and took her on his knee. He looked at her almost comically, in return for her glance of piteous appeal. "Don't laugh at me," she whispered. Horace kissed her. "I am not laughing at you, but at the eternal feminine, dear," he said. "There is something very funny about the eternal feminine. It is so earnest on the wrong tack, and hurts itself and others so cruelly, and gets no thanks for it." "I don't know what you mean. I don't like your talking so to me, Horace. I only meant to do what was right." "I won't talk so any more, darling." "I don't think I have much of the eternal feminine about me, Horace." "Of course not, sweetheart." "I love you, anyway," Rose whispered, and put up her face to be kissed again, "and I didn't want to hurt you. I only wanted to do my duty." "Of course you did, sweetheart. But now you think your duty is to marry me, don't you?" Rose laughed, and there was something angelic and innocent about that laugh of the young girl. Horace kissed her again, then both started. "She is talking to herself in there," whispered Rose. "Horace, what do you suppose it is about? Poor Aunt Sylvia must be worrying horribly about something. What do you think it is?" "I don't know, darling," replied Horace, soberly. They both heard that lamentable murmur of a voice in the other room, but the doors were closed and not a word could be understood. Sylvia was sewing rapidly, setting the most delicate and dainty stitches, and all the time she was talking carrying on a horrible argument, as if against some invisible dissenter.