"I want my grandmother to be as surprised as I am," Electra was saying, with her air of social ease. "Grandmother, who do you think this is? The daughter of Markham MacLeod!" She announced it as if it were great news from a quarter unexplored and wonderful. Rose was on her feet, her pathetic eyes fixed upon the old lady's face. Madam Fulton was regarding her with a frank interest it consoled her to see. It was not, at least, so disproportioned.
"Dear me!" said the old lady. "Well, your father is a remarkable man. Electra here has all his theories by heart."
"I wish I had," breathed Electra with a fervency calculated perhaps to distract the talk from other issues.
"How long have you been in America?" asked the old lady civilly, though not sitting down. She had to realize that she was tired, that it would be the part of prudence to escape to her own room.
"I have just come," said Rose, in a low, eloquent voice, its tones vibrating with her sense of the unfriendliness that had awaited her.
"And where are you staying? How did you drift down here?"
"At Mrs. Grant's—for the present." What might have been indignation warmed the words.
"Grandmother, you must be tired," said Electra affectionately. "Let me go to your room with you, and see you settled."
"Nonsense!" said the old lady briskly. "Nonsense! I'm going, but I don't need any help. Good-by, Miss MacLeod. I shall want to see you again when I have a head on my shoulders."
She had gone, and still Electra made no sign of bidding her guest sit down again. Instead, she turned to Rose with an engaging courtesy.