"And I believe that any one who is not willing to exercise that talent does not fit into a manse."
Rosalie swallowed hard. "I—I do fit, father—I want to. I—I could never be happy any place in the world—outside the manse." Then she added brightly, "So I must never dance any more?"
"Ask the General," he hedged quickly. "She is the head of the family."
"Well, General, speak up, how about it?"
"What a naughty Problem you are," said the General tenderly. "Well, then, if it is up to me, I say this: Father has put it to you squarely. And I know this, Rosalie, that when anything is put squarely on your own shoulders, you straighten up and carry it without flinching. You are old enough to solve your own troubles. This is yours—find the answer for yourself."
"Oh, you bad General," cried Rosalie, laughing. "Now I can not blame it on any one but myself, and I did so want to sympathize with myself, and say, 'I can dance wonderfully, but they won't let me.' Oh, well, I should worry. And, General, by the way, I may as well confess that I was jealous of you last night. You were so different, and so remote—every one had to go to you, away from the whirl, back into your corner where you stood serene. I kept thinking what a nice manse type you are, always distinct, always different, and sweeter than anything. So I had already decided—I just wanted to find out what you would say."
Then Rosalie was gone in a flash, chasing Zee out into the garden for a merry frolic.