“It was in a gallery. It was called The Sacrificial Goat. The poor tormented creature was plodding with weary feet through the quaking wilderness, under the crimson rocks of Edom, and by the shores of the Dead Sea. I could not keep away from that picture. I felt as if I could do anything to give the fainting animal a drink of cold water. No one feels that about me”—and 275 she flung herself among the satin cushions of her sofa and began to sob like a lost child.
“Oh, Rose! Rose! How can you say so? What would I not do to make you happy?”
“Leave me alone, dear mamma. Do not be miserable about me. I am not worth worrying over; and I do not care the snap of my fingers for your society! Only, do not tell papa anything against his little Rose. He will never find out I am sorrowful and despised unless you say it in his very ears.”
“Rose, go and speak to your father. He is a wise man; and he has a heart, my child.”
“Yes, as good a heart as can possibly be made out of brains. But I do not want to trouble papa; and I do want him to believe I am all that is lovely and admirable. You never told him about Duval, did you?”
“No. Why should I?”
“And what have you said about Antony?”
“What you told me to say—that gold had been found on his place, and he had to look after things. It quite pleased him.”
“Will Harry say anything—wrong?”
“Nothing at all. I have spoken to Harry.”