'Rose Mallett,' Sophia went on, so lost in her
vision that the jarring laughter was not heard, 'such a pretty name--a
nun! She would never be forgotten: people would tell their children.
Sister Rose!' She developed her idea. 'Saint Rose! It's as pretty as
Saint Cecilia--prettier!'
'Sophia, you're in your dotage,' Caroline cried. 'A Mallett and a nun!
Well, she could pray for the rest of us, I suppose.'
'But I would rather you were married, dear,' Sophia said serenely.
'And we have known the Sales all our lives. It would have been so
suitable.'
'So dull!' Rose murmured.
'And we need praying for,' Caroline said. 'You'd be dull either way,
Rose. Have your fling, as I did. I've never regretted it. I was the
talk of Radstowe, wasn't I, Sophia? There was never a ball where I was
not looked for, and when I entered the ballroom'--she gave a display
of how she did it--'there was a rush of black coats and white shirts--
a mob--I used just to wave them all away--like that. Oh, yes, Sophia,
you were a belle, too--'
'But never as you were, Caroline.'
'You were admired for yourself, Sophia, but with me it was curiosity.
They only wanted to hear what I should say next. I had a tongue like a
lash! They were afraid of it.'
'Yes, yes,' Sophia said hastily, and she glanced at Rose, afraid of
meeting scepticism in her clear young eyes; but though Rose was
smiling it was not in mockery. She was thinking of her childhood when,
like a happier Cinderella, she had seen her stepsisters, in satins and
laces, with pendant fans and glittering jewels, excited, rustling,
with little words of commendation for each other, setting out for the
evening parties of which they never tired.
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