It was the spur of Angelica’s requirements that drove forward the weary Mrs. Kennedy. If she didn’t have things nice, Angelica would rearrange and do over until she was suited. She didn’t complain much, but wasn’t she exacting! Like a man, her mother used to say. She’d never be satisfied with a cup of tea and some little thing you’d maybe have left from the day before. Plenty of variety there must be, and a clean cloth, too. She was brisk and deft about her preparations when she got home; but she wasn’t quite prepared when the bell rang three times, by way of announcement only, as the door was always unlatched, and into the kitchen came her daughter Angelica--her only child. Angelica was not regarded by her peers as beautiful, for the quality of her beauty was not obvious. She was looked at, stared at, fiercely desired; she was often enough followed in the street; and yet not one of these admirers would have called her beautiful. There was "something about her," that was all--something not to be resisted. She herself was only dimly aware of it. She knew well enough that she was alluring, that she possessed some enchantment to enthrall men. She knew by some instinct how to use her charm, but she didn’t comprehend it or appreciate it. She regarded herself with a pleased and wondering interest. A pale, narrow face with strange black eyes, not quite alike; a rich, scornfully curling mouth; the mysterious, adorable languor of an old Italian Madonna--an exciting languor, like that of a drowsy panther; and with this curious and touching beauty went a swaggering impudence, the speech, the gestures of a thorough gamine. Then there was her walk, the exaggerated suppleness of her thin young body, the rakish tilt of her broad-brimmed hat, the movement of her skirts, and a naïve wickedness that seemed shocking, almost blasphemous, in conjunction with that wonderful face. And it was this air of bravado, this gamine swagger, which she fancied was her charm. The poetry of her, the exquisite subtleness of her face, she didn’t recognize. Her mother alone had some inexpressible and formless idea of this. She saw something rare and heart-breaking in her child, something that robbed her of any pretense of authority. "Tired?" she asked her now. "No!" said Angelica scornfully. "Bacon? That’s nice. Have it good and crisp, mommer. No, I’m not tired--only sort of _sick_ of things." She sat down before the table and waited, her chin on her hand, somber, frowning, in a mood which her mother knew well and dreaded. She put the plates on the table and stood, waiting, too nervous to eat. She could see that Angelica had something on her mind, and there would be no peace till she had got rid of it. "Hurry up and eat, mommer," she said impatiently; "so we can go to the movies after." "I haven’t any money, deary." "I’ll pay." Her mother was startled. How could Angelica have money to spare on a Thursday? "I got paid off," said Angelica.