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But it wasn't merely the events of this sort, sitting in boxes at the
opera and going to marvelous supper dances afterward, that had this
thrilling quality of incredibility to Rose. The connective tissue of her
life gave her the same sensation, perhaps even more strongly.
Portia had been quite right in saying that she had never _had_ to do
anything; the rallying of all her forces under the spur of necessity was
an experience she had never undergone. And it was also true that her
mother, and for that matter, Portia herself had spoiled her a lot--had
run about doing little things for her, come in and shut down her windows
in the morning, and opened the register, and on any sort of excuse, on a
Saturday morning, for example, had brought her her breakfast on a tray.
But these things had been favors, not services--never to be asked for,
of course, and always to be accepted a little apologetically. She never
knew what it was really to be served, until she and Rodney came back
from their camp in the woods.


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