Her mother's room resembled one of the sales of obvious and expensive attire conducted in the lower salons of pleasure hotels. There were airy piles of chiffon and satin, inappropriate hats and the inevitable confections of silk and lace. “It's not necessary to ask if you were right at home with your father's family,” Mrs. Condon observed with an assumed casual inattention. “I can see you sitting with those old women as dry and false as any. No one saved me in the clacking, I'm sure.” “We didn't speak of you,” Linda replied. She studied, unsparing, the loose flesh of the elder's ravaged countenance. Her mother, she recognized, hated her, both because she was like Bartram Lowrie and still young, with everything unspent that the other valued and had lost. In support of herself Mrs. Feldt asserted again that she had “lived,” with stacks of friends and flowers, lavish parties and devoted attendance. “You may be smarter than I was,” she went on, “but what good it does you who can say? And if you expect to get something for nothing you're fooled before you start.” She shook out the airy breadths of a vivid echo of past daring. “From the way you act a person might think you were pretty, but you are too thin and pulled out. I've heard your looks called peculiar, and that was, in a manner of speaking, polite. You're not even stylish any more--the line is full again and not suitable for bony shoulders and no bust.” She still cherished a complacency in her amplitude. Linda turned away unmoved. Of all the world, she thought, only Dodge Pleydon had the power actually to hurt her. She knew that she would see him soon again and that again he would ask her to marry him. She considered, momentarily, the possibility of saying yes; and instantly the dread born with him in the Lowrie garden swept over her. Linda told herself that he was the only man for whom she could ever deeply care; that--for every conceivable reason--such a marriage was perfect. But the shrinking from its implications grew too painful for support. Her mother's bitterness increased hourly; she no longer hid her feelings from her husband and Judith; and dinner, accompanied by her elaborate sarcasm, was a difficult period in which, plainly, Mr. Moses Feldt suffered most and Linda was the least concerned. This condition, she admitted silently, couldn't go on indefinitely; it was too vulgar if for no other reason. And she determined to ask the Lowries for another and more extended invitation.