“Now look at here, both of you,” she said.  “Once for all, I have got nothing to say against your getting married.  I am worrying about something, and it is nobody’s business what it is.  I am doing right.  I am doing what I know is right, and I ain’t going to let myself be persuaded I ain’t.  I have done all I could for Rose, and I am going to do more.  I have nothing against your getting married.  Now I am going into the parlor to finish this work.  The lamp in there is better.  You can settle it betwixt you.”

Sylvia went out, a long line of fine lace trailing in her wake.  Horace stood still where she had left him.  Rose looked at him timidly.

“I didn’t know she felt so,” she ventured, at last, in a small voice.

Horace said nothing.  Rose went to him, put her hand through his arm, and laid her cheek against his unresponsive shoulder.  “I did think it would about kill her if it went on,” she whispered.  “I think I was mistaken.”

“And you didn’t mind in the least how much I was hurt, as long as she wasn’t,” said Horace.

“Yes, I did.”

“I must say it did not have that appearance.”

Rose wept softly against his rough coat-sleeve.  “I wanted to do what was right, and she looked so dreadfully; and I didn’t want to be selfish,” she sobbed.

Horace looked down at her, and his face softened.  “Oh Rose,” he said, “you are all alike, you women.  When it comes to a question of right or wrong, you will all lay your best-beloved on the altar of sacrifice.  Your logic is all wrong, dear.  You want to do right so much that the dust of virtue gets into your eyes of love and blinds them.  I should come first with you, before your aunt Sylvia, and your own truth and happiness should come first; but you wanted to lay them all at her feet—­or, rather, at the feet of your conscience.”

“I only wanted to do what was right,” Rose sobbed again.

“I know you did, dear.”  Horace put his arm around Rose.  He drew her to a chair, sat down, and took her on his knee.  He looked at her almost comically, in return for her glance of piteous appeal.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she whispered.

Horace kissed her.  “I am not laughing at you, but at the eternal feminine, dear,” he said.  “There is something very funny about the eternal feminine.  It is so earnest on the wrong tack, and hurts itself and others so cruelly, and gets no thanks for it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.  I don’t like your talking so to me, Horace.  I only meant to do what was right.”

“I won’t talk so any more, darling.”

“I don’t think I have much of the eternal feminine about me, Horace.”

“Of course not, sweetheart.”

“I love you, anyway,” Rose whispered, and put up her face to be kissed again, “and I didn’t want to hurt you.  I only wanted to do my duty.”

“Of course you did, sweetheart.  But now you think your duty is to marry me, don’t you?”