“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.” Returning with the silver cup of the flask half full of pale pungent brandy Linda could scarcely keep the tears from spilling over her cheeks. She had never before felt so sad. Her mother hastily drank, the stinging odor was transferred to her lips; and there was a palpable recovery of her customary spirit. “I don't know what gets over me,” she asserted. “I'm certain, from what I've heard of them, that you wouldn't be a bit better off in one of those fashionable schools for girls. Woman, young and older, were never meant to be a lot together in one place. It's unnatural. They don't like each other, ever, and it's all hypocritical and nasty. You will get more from life, yes, and me. I'm honest, too honest for my own good, if the truth was known.” She rose and unconsciously strayed to the mirror over the mantel where she examined her countenance in absorbed detail. “My skin is getting soft like putty,” she remarked aloud to herself. “The thing is, I've had my time and don't want to pay for it. Blondes go quicker than dark women; you ought to last a long while, Linda.” Mrs. Condon had turned, and her tone was again almost complaining, almost ill-natured. Linda considered this information with a troubled face. It was quite clear that it made her mother cross. “I've seen men stop and look at you right now, too, and you nothing more than a slip fourteen years old. Of course, when I was fifteen I had a proposal; but I was very forward; and somehow you're different--so dam' serious.”