“Where did you go?” “We ... took a day off ... picnicking in the Forest ... it seemed such a fine day....” “Who’s we?” “Helen and ... and ... me.” “Are you in the habit of taking days off like that?” “Oh no.... It’s the first time we’ve ever done it.” There was a pause. “You know,” he went on protestingly, “this sort of thing’s not good enough, Catherine.... You ought to see that this sort of thing can’t go on ... it’s too bad of you ... running off to play truant ... and on the very day that ... that your mother ...” “How on earth could I----” she began hastily, and then stopped, for she saw that big tears were rolling down both his cheeks. “Not good enough,” he kept muttering, vaguely reproachful. Then later on he reopened the question. “I suppose--er--you and Helen were the only people at the picnic?” “No--there were two others.” “Girls, I suppose?” “No.” “Not young men, I hope?” “Yes, one of them was Helen’s brother. The other was a friend of his....” For a few moments he was very thoughtful. Then he continued: “I don’t think you ought to have gone with them, Catherine ... at your age, you know.... Besides, you’ve plenty of girl friends--I can’t think what you want with young men and boys.... Girls should stick to girls....” “But surely, Father----” “If you want friends, let them be girl friends ... surely you can find plenty of your own sex without----” Catherine could think of no adequate answer to this argument, so she bade him good-night and went upstairs to bed.... § 8 In the little back bedroom she sat down on the bed and tried to gather her wits. She was overwhelmed by a feeling of physical weariness: that was not surprising, for she had walked perhaps fifteen miles that day. In the candle-light she saw her face in the mirror: she was surprised to find herself almost ashen pale. Her red hair floated cloud-like around her head: in the little hand-mirror there was not room to see all of it at once. But it was still flying as if in the wind, and it was gorgeously wild and untamed.... “My God,” George Trant had said, “your hair!” ... ... Catherine was surprised, almost shocked that she had as yet shed no tears for her mother. It seemed such a brutally callous piece of negligence, and Catherine was sure she was neither brutal nor callous.... Yet tears would not come. She undressed and got into bed.... The pumping-engine at the water-works went on at its patient chug-chugging, and forthwith a myriad memories of childhood came back to her.... She could feel the tears welling up into her eyes, and then she realized that it was sentiment and not grief that was affecting her. She would not weep for sentiment, like the heroines in the six-penny novels that Madge Saunders read. Ever and anon the whisper came echoing through her mind: “My God ... your hair!” ...