Immediately, Rose saw, the words had lost their lustre. They were of no value, save as they had the sanction of MacLeod. Electra moved a pace nearer the door. She was impatient, Rose believed, to have her gone.
"Good-by, Electra," she said lingeringly and sadly. "I can't persuade you, can I?"
"No, you can't persuade me."
"And you glory in it!"
"Yes. And I thank God I have something to glory in."
At last she had it, the purpose of her life, though it was only a memory. But after all, what might she not turn it into? For she was pressing on as rashly as if the army of her desires were not at the cliff's edge below which foamed the sea, and in the sea, perhaps, lay glorious disaster.
"I shall be in Paris within a month," Rose hesitated. "If I can do anything for you there,—I told you the Brotherhood was not easily found, but I could introduce you to the leaders."
"They will flock about you," said Electra, with a candid bitterness, "because you are his daughter."
"Not long. There are things to do,—money to make over to them, money that stood in his name. Everything was in his name. I don't know how much he had of his own, so I shall keep my mother's and give back the rest."
"That will be right," said Electra. She did not add "ethically." Outlines had grown too sharp for that.