"But, Mother, that's the very reason--I mean, it would be the reason,"
I stammered. Then I stopped. My tongue just wouldn't move, my throat
and lips were so dry.

To think that Mother suspected--_knew already_--about Jerry and me;
and yet to say that _on account_ of Eunice I would not do it. Why, it
was _for_ Eunice, largely, that I was _going_ to do it. To let that
child grow up thinking that dancing and motoring was all of life,
and--

But Mother was speaking again.

"Eunice--yes. You mean that you never would make her go through what
you went through when you were her age."

"Why, Mother, I--I--" And then I stopped again. And I was so angry and
indignant with myself because I had to stop, when there were so many,
many things that I wanted to say, if only my dry lips could articulate
the words.

Mother drew her breath in with a little catch. She had grown rather
white.

"I wonder if you remember--if you ever think of--your childhood," she
said.

"Why, yes, of--of course--sometimes." It was my turn to stammer. I was
thinking of that diary that I had just read--and added to.