"I wish now I'd been different," Mrs. Condon said, standing in the
door. Her dress was not yet on, but her underthings were fully as
elaborate and shimmering as any gown could hope to be. "And above
everything else, I am sorry for the kind of mother you've had." This
was so unexpected, the other's voice was so unhappy, that Linda was
startled. She hurried across the room and laid a slim palm on her
mother's full bare arm. "Don't say that," Linda begged, distressed;
"you've been the best in the world."

"You know nothing about it," the elder returned, momentarily seated,
her hands clasped on her full silken lap. "But perhaps it's not too
late. You ought to go to a good school, where you'd learn
everything, but principally what a bad thoughtless mama you have."

"I shouldn't stay a second in a place where they said that," Linda
declared. A new apprehension touched her. "You're not really
thinking of sending me away!" she cried. "Why, you simply could not
get along. You know you couldn't! The maids never do up your dresses
right; and you'd be so lonely in the mornings you would nearly die."

"That's true," Mrs. Condon admitted wearily. "I would expire; but I
was thinking of you--you're only beginning life; and the start
you'll get with me is all wrong. Or, anyway, most people think so."

"They are only jealous."

"Will you go into the closet, darling, and pour out a teeny little
sip from my flask; mama feels a thousand years old this evening."