"What little boy?"
"Your little cousin—Lord Beaupré's child; isn't it a boy?"
"Oh, poor little beggar, he isn't up to much. He was awfully cut up by scarlet fever."
"You're not the rose indeed, but you're tolerably near it," the elder lady presently continued.
"What do you call near it? Not even in the same garden—not in any garden at all, alas!"
"There are three lives—but after all!"
"Dear lady, don't be homicidal!"
"What do you call the 'rose?'" Mary asked of her mother.
"The title," said Mrs. Gosselin, promptly but softly.
Something in her tone made Firminger laugh aloud. "You don't mention the property."
"Oh, I mean the whole thing."
"Is the property very large?" said Mary Gosselin.
"Fifty thousand a year," her mother responded; at which the young man laughed out again.
