But I told her no, oh, no, and that I was sure he remembered her, for he used to ask me questions often about what she did, and the violinist and all. "The violinist!" cried Mother, whirling around on me again. (She'd begun to walk up and down once more.) "You don't mean to say you ever told your father about _him_!" "Oh, no, not everything," I explained, trying to show how patient I was, so she would be patient, too. (But it didn't work.) "I couldn't tell him everything because everything hadn't happened then. But I told about his being here, and about the others, too; but, of course, I said I didn't know which you'd take, and--" "You told him you didn't know _which I'd take_!" gasped Mother. Just like that she interrupted, and she looked so shocked. And she didn't look much better when I explained very carefully what I did say, even though I assured her over and over again that Father was interested, very much interested. When I said that, she just muttered, "Interested, indeed!" under her breath. Then she began to walk again, up and down, up and down. Then, all of a sudden, she flung herself on the couch and began to cry and sob as if her heart would break. And when I tried to comfort her, I only seemed to make it worse, for she threw her arms around me and cried: "Oh, my darling, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it is, how dreadful it is?" And then is when she began to talk some more about being married, and _un_married as we were. She held me close again and began to sob and cry. "Oh, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it all is--how unnatural it is for us to live--this way? And for you--you poor child!--what could be worse for you? And here I am, jealous--jealous of your own father, for fear you'll love him better than you do me! "Oh, I know I ought not to say all this to you--I know I ought not to. But I can't--help it. I want you! I want you every minute; but I have to give you up--six whole months of every year I have to give you up to him. And he's your father, Marie. And he's a good man. I know he's a good man. I know it all the better now since I've seen--other men. And I ought to tell you to love him. But I'm so afraid--you'll love him better than you do me, and want to leave--me. And I can't give you up! I can't give you up!" Then I tried to tell her, of course, that she wouldn't have to give me up, and that I loved her a whole lot better than I did Father. But even that didn't comfort her, 'cause she said I _ought_ to love _him_. That he was lonesome and needed me. He needed me just as much as she needed me, and maybe more. And then she went on again about how unnatural and awful it was to live the way we were living. And she called herself a wicked woman that she'd ever allowed things to get to such a pass. And she said if she could only have her life to live over again she'd do so differently--oh, so differently.