There was enough real concern in her voice to save the question from sounding satirical, but her mother’s manner was still a little apologetic when she answered it.

“No, I think not,” she said.  “I think the mustard foot-bath and the quinine probably averted serious consequences.  But she was in such a state when she came home last night—­literally wet through to the skin, and blue with cold.  So I thought it wouldn’t do any harm ...”

“Of course not,” said Portia.  “You’re entitled to one baby anyway, mother, dear.  Life was such a strenuous thing for you when the rest of us were little, that you hadn’t a chance to have any fun with us.  And Rose is all right.  She won’t spoil badly.”

“I’m a little bit worried about the loss of the poor child’s note-books,” said her mother.  “I rather hoped they’d come in by the noon mail.  But they didn’t.”

“I don’t believe Rose is worrying her head off about them.” said Portia.

The flush in her mother’s cheeks deepened a little, but it was no longer apologetic.

“I don’t think you’re quite fair to Rose, about her studies,” she said.  “The child may not be making a brilliant record, but really, considering the number of her occupations, it seems to me she does very well.  And if she doesn’t seem always to appreciate her privilege in getting a college education, as seriously as she should, you should remember her youth.”

“She’s twenty,” said Portia bluntly.  “You graduated at that age, and you took it seriously enough.”

“It’s very different,” her mother insisted.  “And I’m sure you understand the difference quite well.  Higher education was still an experiment for women then—­one of the things they were fighting for.  And those of us by whom the success of the experiment was to be judged ...”

“I’m sorry, mother,” Portia interrupted contritely.  “I’m tired and ugly to-day, and I didn’t mean any harm, anyway.  Of course Rose is all right, just as I said.  And she’ll probably get her note-books back Monday.”  Then, “Didn’t she say the man’s name was Rodney Aldrich?”

“I think so,” her mother agreed.  “Something like that.”

“It’s rather funny,” said Portia.  “It’s hardly likely to have been the real Rodney Aldrich.  Yet, it’s not a common name.”

“The real Rodney Aldrich?” questioned her mother.  But, without waiting for her daughter’s elucidation of the phrase, she added, “Oh, there’s Rose!”

The girl came shuffling into the room in a pair of old bedroom slippers.  She had on a skirt that she used to go skating in, and a somewhat tumbled middy-blouse.  Her hair was wopsed around her head anyhow—­it really takes one of Rose’s own words to describe it.  As a toilet representing the total accomplishment of a morning, it was nothing to boast of.  But, if you’d been sitting there, invisibly, where you could see her, you’d have straightened up and drawn a deeper breath than you’d indulged in lately, and felt that the world was distinctly a brighter place to live in than it had been a moment before.