"Read on, my dear. I will tell you what to mark, and you must be sure also to mark any dish that you yourself may fancy," said Mr. Rockharrt, speaking very kindly to Rose, but glaring ferociously toward Cora.
Rose read slowly, pausing at each item. Mr. Rockharrt named his favorite dishes, Rose marked them, and the order was given to the waiter, who took it away.
Breakfast was soon served, and a most disagreeable meal it must have been but for Rose Stillwater's invincible good humor. She chatted gayly through the whole meal, perfectly resolved to ignore the cloud that was between the grandfather and the granddaughter.
As soon as they arose from the table old Aaron Rockharrt ordered a carriage to take him down to Wall Street, on some business connected with his last great speculation, which was all that his granddaughter knew.
Before leaving the hotel, he launched this bitter insult at Cora, through their guest:
"My dear," he said to Mrs. Stillwater, as he drew on his gloves, "I must leave my granddaughter under your charge. I beg that you will look after her. She really seeds the supervision of a governess quite as much now as she did years ago when you had the training of her."
Corona's wrath flamed up. A scathing sarcasm was on her lips. She turned.
But no. She could not resent the insult of so aged a man; even if he had not been her grandfather.
Rose Stillwater said never a word. It was not—it would not have been prudent to speak. To treat the matter as a jest would have offended the Iron King; to have taken it seriously would most justly and unpardonably have offended Corona Rothsay. Truly, Rose found that "Jordan am a hard road to trabbel!" And here at least was an apt application of the old proverb:
"Speech is silver, silence is golden." So Rose said never a word, but looked from one to the other, smiling divinely on each in turn.