Now the old lady found her tongue, but only to murmur,—
"I can't even laugh. It's too funny; it's too awfully funny."
"Let me get you a little wine." Electra had put her papers together and now she rose.
Then Madam Fulton found her strength.
"Sit down, Electra," she said. "Why, child, you don't realize—I don't know what you'd do if you did—you don't realize I put that in there by the merest impulse."
"Of course," said Electra kindly. "I understand that. You never dreamed of its having any bearing on things as they are now, they have gone on in this way so long. But it would be shocking to me, shocking, to seem to own this house when it is yours—ethically."
"Don't say ethically. I can't stand it. There, Electra! you're a good girl. I know that. But you're conscience gone mad. You've read George Eliot till you're not comfortable unless you're renouncing something. Take things a little more lightly. You can if you give your mind to it. Now this—this is nothing but a joke. You have my word for it."
"It isn't a joke," said Electra firmly, "when grandfather could write that over his own signature and send it to a well-known person. How did it come back into your hands, grandmother?"
But Madam Fulton looked at her, wondering what asylum Electra would put her in, if she knew the truth. She essayed a miserable gayety.
"Very well, Electra," she smiled, "call it so, if you like, but we won't say any more about it. I can't have houses made over to me. I may totter into the grave to-morrow."