"You're a brazen hussy," she said. "But of all things, why did you come here with your little comedy in your hand, if you didn't mean to play it out?"
"I did mean to play it," said Rose, laying her head back against the high rail of the chair. She closed her eyes, for again she felt the tears coming. "But I—got sick of it."
Madam Fulton nodded confirmingly.
"That's precisely it," she agreed. "We do get sick of it. We get sick of conduct, good or bad. They don't, the good ones. They go on clambering, one step after another, up that pyramid, and peering over the edge to see us playing in the sand, and occasionally, if they can get a brick, they heave it at us."
"Who are the good ones?" Rose asked languidly. "Electra?"
"Electra? She's neither hot nor cold. But she's of the kind that made the system in the first place."
"Grannie is good," said Rose absently.
"Bessie Grant? Yes, she's God's anointed, if there is a God. My dear, I love to talk with you, almost as much as with Billy Stark. You come and stay with me next winter."
Rose smiled.
"There's Electra," she reminded her.