She spoke with an effort, almost forcing the syllables from her lips, for she was suffering terribly just then. She wished that her mother would go away, and leave her to herself, if only for half an hour. She had so much more to think of than any one could know, or guess--except old Robert Lauderdale and Jack himself. “Well, child--as you like,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, feeling that she had made a series of mistakes. “I’m sure I don’t care to talk about it in the least, but I can’t prevent your father from saying what he pleases. Of course he began to make remarks about your not coming to breakfast this morning. I didn’t go down myself until he had nearly finished, and he seemed hurt at our neglecting him. And then, he had been reading the paper, and so the question came up. But, dearest, don’t think I’m unkind and heartless and all that sort of thing. I love you dearly, child. Don’t you believe me?” She put her arm round Katharine’s neck and kissed her. “Oh, yes!” Katharine answered wearily. “I’m sure you do.” Mrs. Lauderdale looked into her face long and earnestly. “It’s quite wonderful!” she exclaimed at last. “You’re a little pale--but, after all, you’re just as pretty as ever this morning.” “Am I?” asked Katharine, indifferently. “I don’t feel pretty.” “Oh, well--that will all go away,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, withdrawing her arm and turning towards the door. “Yes,” she repeated thoughtfully, as though to herself, “that will all go away. You’re so young--still--so young!” Her head sank forward a little as she went out and she did not look back at her daughter. Katharine drew a long breath of relief when she found herself alone. The interview had not lasted many minutes, but it had seemed endless. She looked at the torn pieces of the newspaper which lay on the floor, and she shuddered a little and turned from them uneasily, half afraid that some supernatural power might force her to stoop down and pick them up, and fit them together and read the paragraph to the end. She sat down to try and collect her thoughts. But she grew more and more confused as she reviewed the past and tried to call up the future. For instance, if John Ralston came to the house that afternoon, to explain, to defend himself, to ask forgiveness of her, what should she say to him? Could she send him away without a word of hope? And if not, what hope should she give him? And hope of what? He was her husband. He had a right to claim her if he pleased--before every one. The words all seemed to be gradually losing their meaning for her. The bells of the horse-cars as they passed through Clinton Place sang queer little songs to her, and the snow-glare made her eyes ache. There was no longer any apparent reason why the day should go on, nor why it should end. She did not know what time it was, and she did not care to look. What difference did it make?