"Perfectly," said her mother. "He was evidently deeply disturbed by the bill. He felt that you were, and should be, his confidant. He simply did not dream of hiding it from you, I believe. It was the spontaneous act of one who so loves you that his whole life--all of that which moves him greatly--must, as a matter of course, be open to you. I thought that all out when the bill came addressed to me. He--" The girl kissed her in silence. "You have such splendid self-respect, Gertrude. Most of us--most women--have none. We do not expect, do not demand, the least respect that is real from men. They have no respect for our opinions, and so upon all the real and important things of life, they hold out to us the sham of silence as more respectful than candor. And we--most of us--are weak enough to say we like it. Most of us--" Gertrude slipped down upon a cushion at the feet of her mother, and put her young, strong arms about the supple waist. She had of late read from time to time so much of the unrest and scorn back of the gay and compliant face of her mother. "Mamma, my real mamma," she said, softly, "I<am so sorry for papa that he should have missed so much, so much that might have been his! A mental comrade like you--" "Men of your father's generation did not want mental comrades in their wives, Gertrude. They--" "A telegram, Miss Gertrude," said James, drawing aside the portiere. "The bill has been rushed through. Passed. Nineteen majority. Avery." Gertrude read it and handed it to her mother, and both women sat as if stunned by a blow. IX. At the close of the Legislature, John Berton, professional starter, and his friend and ally, the father of Francis King, had returned to the city. Francis had grown, so her father thought, more handsome and less agreeable than ever. Her eyes were more dissatisfied, and she was, if possible, less pliant. She and Ettie Berton were working now in a store, and Francis said that she did not like it at all. The money she liked. It helped her to dress more as she wished, and then it had always cut Francis to the quick to be compelled to ask her father for money whenever she needed it, even for car fare. She had lied a good many times. Her whole nature rebelled against lying, but even this was easier to her than the status of dependence and beggary, so she had lied often about the price of shoes, or of a hat or dress, that there might be a trifle left over as a margin for her use in other ways. Her father was not unusually hard with her about money, only that he demanded a strict accounting before he gave it to her. "What in thunder do you want of money?" he would ask, more as a matter of habit than anything else. "How much 'll it take? Humph! Well, I guess you'll have to have it, but--" and so the ungracious manner of giving angered and humiliated her.