"His habit of thought, something about his daily life as seen by those nearest him, anything to interpret a great man to us."
"I can't do it." Rose had answered with a touch of harshness strangely contrasted with her facile ways. "I really can't."
Now she saw why she had been summoned, and her gratitude sobered into dull distaste. She felt cold.
"That sort of thing is very difficult," said Stark, in a general desire to quell the emotional tide. "I often think a person next us has to be inarticulate about us. He doesn't know really what he thinks of us till we are gone. You know a big Frenchman says it is like being inside the works of a clock. You can't tell the time there. You have to go outside."
Rose was upon her feet, a lovely figure, wistful and mysteriously sad.
"I must go back," she said. "Thank you for letting me come." She had turned away when Madam Fulton called to her.
"Miss MacLeod!" Rose stood, arrested. Madam Fulton continued, "Why not stay to luncheon with us?"
The girl did not answer. Apparently she could not. Tears were swimming in her eyes. She looked at Electra in what might be reproach or a despair at the futility of the fight she had to make. She returned to Madam Fulton and stood before her.
"You didn't know," she said, in a low tone. "No one has told you!"
"Sit down," said the old lady kindly. "What is it?"