Mrs. Lauderdale’s whole character seemed to have changed, as her daughter said that it had, between one day and the next. A strong new passion had risen up in the very midst of it and had torn it to shreds, as it were. Even now, as she gazed at Katharine, she was conscious that she envied the girl for being able to suffer without looking old. She hated herself for it, but she could not resist it, any more than she could help glancing at her own reflection in the mirror that morning to see whether her face showed any fatigue after the long ball. This at least was satisfactory, for she was as brilliantly fresh as ever. She could hardly understand how she could have seemed so utterly broken down and weary on Monday night and all day on Tuesday, but she could never forget how she had then looked, and the fear of it was continually upon her. Nevertheless she loved Katharine still. The conflict between her love and her envy made her seem oddly inconsequent and almost frivolous. Katharine fancied that her mother was growing to be like Charlotte. The appealing tone of the girl’s last words rang in Mrs. Lauderdale’s ears and accused her. She stretched out her hand and tried to draw Katharine towards her, affectionately, as she often did when she was seated and the girl was standing. “Katharine, dear child,” she began, “I’m not changed to you--it’s only--” “Yes--it’s only Jack!” answered Katharine, bitterly. “We won’t talk of him, darling,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, softly, and trying to soothe her. “You see, I didn’t know how badly you felt about it--” “You might have guessed. You know that I love him--you never knew how much!” “Yes, sweetheart, but now--” “There is no ‘but’--it’s the passion of my life--the first, the last, and the only one!” “You’re so young, my darling, that it seems to you as though there could never be anything else--” “Seems! I know.” Though Mrs. Lauderdale had already repented of what she had done and really wished to be sympathetic, she could not help smiling faintly at the absolute conviction with which Katharine spoke. There was something so young and whole-hearted in the tone as well as in those words that only found an echo far back in the forgotten fields of the older woman’s understanding. She hardly knew what to answer, and patted Katharine’s head gently while she sought for something to say. But Katharine resented the affectionate manner, being in no humour to appreciate anything which had a savour of artificiality about it. She withdrew her hand and faced her mother again. “I know all that you can tell me,” she said. “I know all there is to be known, without reading that vile thing. But I don’t know what I shall do--I shall decide. And, please--mother--if you care for me at all--don’t talk about it. It’s hard enough, as it is--just the thing, without any words.”