"All Germans are of noble birth," Nora observed scornfully.
"So much the better for them," Mrs. Ingestre returned. "Are you willing to try? You know the alternative."
"May I think it over, mother?"
"Yes, you may think over it, if you like. It is, after all, only a question of your willingness."
"That means you have made up your mind?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Ingestre saw the strong young face set into lines of defiance. She went back to the sofa and lay down with a sigh.
"Little Nora," she said, almost under her breath, "you know it is not my custom to preach. You won't think, therefore, that I am just 'talking' when I tell you: years ago I would have given anything—anything—to have had this chance."
For the first time in their long interview the girl stopped listening to the self-pitying confusion of her thoughts. The elder woman's voice had penetrated her youthful egoism, and she turned with that curious tugging at the heart which we experience when we have unexpectedly heard a smothered cry of pain break from lips usually composed in lines of peace and apparent content.
"Mother!" Nora exclaimed. The room was now in almost complete shadow. She came closer and bent over the quiet face. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of roses, and it flashed through Nora's mind as she stood there that her mother was like a rose—pale and faded, but still beautiful, still breathing a wonderful perfume of purity and sweetness.