Then Regina went home. She felt that everybody in the Park was looking at her. So they were, for the story had gone round that Mrs. Whittaker had become a little wrong in her head. The story had been going round that she had been seen walking up the road in her nightgown and many variations of it had already found credence. "Have you heard the news? That Mrs. Whittaker of Ye Dene has gone off her dot." "Oh, my dear!" "Well, Charley says he met her walking up the road in her nightgown." "Oh, nonsense." "Well, that's what I said, but Charley met her himself." "Was she walking in her sleep?" "Charley didn't seem to think so." Then a little later, "You know Mrs. Whittaker of Ye Dene, they're saying she's got a tile off." "Well, I always did think she was a peculiar kind of woman; no woman would dress like that who was altogether right in her head." "Yes, but I didn't think she was as bad as that. Why! she, the President of some society for making new women. Who says she's got a tile off?" "Well, my sister was at the Wingfield-Jacksons' yesterday, and Mrs. Jackson told her that Charley had seen her walking up the road in her nightgown, so she must be quite dotty, you know." A few days after the story spread still further. "You've heard the latest, of course." "No, I've heard nothing particular, most people are away." "They've taken poor Mrs. Whittaker away to a lunatic asylum." "Oh, my dear, you don't say so. What for?" "Well, I suppose she's gone out of her mind. Perhaps the wedding, the fuss--so many presents--ah, I thought at the time they were rather over-doing it." "But I thought she was such a strong-minded woman." "Ah, but don't you think there's always something abnormal about these strong-minded women. Just as my Harry said when he told me--_he_ got it from the club, of course; all the gossip in the place comes from the club--as he said, it's all very well to take women out of their rightful sphere and let them regenerate the world, but it doesn't pay; that that's just how we ordinary women, who haven't got souls above our natural duties, may take comfort to ourselves." "When did it happen?" "I don't know, but when they were supposed to go abroad she was taken away to a lunatic asylum. They say she's at Bolitho House, and I did hear that she is kept in a padded room." "But, my dear," said the other woman, "just turn your eyes to the window. There's Mrs. Whittaker walking down the road with her hair dressed a new way and the smartest hat on her head that I've ever seen in my life!" "Well, I never!" CHAPTER XXV POOR MOTHER I think that nothing in the world shows truer affection than that curious resentment against any change in the appearance of those we love.