anne.

"Love! Love! You talk about love," said her mother bitterly and
hysterically. "What do you know about it? Do you think he can be loving
you when he wants to come here and take you out of a good home and a
virtuous social condition and wreck your life, and bring you down into
the mire, your life and mine, and that of your sisters and brother for
ever and ever? What does he know of love? What do you? Think of Adele
and Ninette and Kinroy. Have you no regard for them? Where is your love
for me and for them? Oh, I have been so afraid that Kinroy might hear
something of this. He would go and kill him. I know he would. I couldn't
prevent it. Oh, the shame, the scandal, the wreck, it would involve us
all in. Have you no conscience, Suzanne; no heart?"

Suzanne stared before her calmly. The thought of Kinroy moved her a
little. He might kill Eugene--she couldn't tell--he was a courageous
boy. Still there was no need for any killing, or exposure, or excitement
of any kind if her mother would only behave herself. What difference did
it make to her, or Kinroy, or anybody anywhere what she did? Why
couldn't she if she wanted to? The risk was on her head. She was
willing. She couldn't see what harm it would do.

She expressed this thought to her mother once who answered in an
impassioned plea for her to look at the facts. "How many evil women of
the kind and character you would like to make of yourself, do you know?
How many would you like to know? How many do you suppose there are in
good society? Look at this situation from Mrs. Witla's point of view.
How would you like to be in her place? How would you like to be in mine?
Suppose you were Mrs. Witla and Mrs. Witla were the other woman. What
then?"

"I would let him go," said Suzanne.

"Yes! Yes! Yes! You would let him go. You might, but how would you feel?
How would anyone feel? Can't you see the shame in all this, the
disgrace? Have you no comprehension at all? No feeling?"

"Oh, how you talk, mama. How silly you talk. You don't know the facts.
Mrs. Witla doesn't love him any more. She told me so. She has written me
so. I had the letter and gave it back to Eugene. He doesn't care for
her. She knows it. She knows he cares for me. What difference does it
make if she doesn't love him. He's entitled to love somebody. Now I love
him. I want him. He wants me. Why shouldn't we have each other?"

In spite of all her threats, Mrs. Dale was not without subsidiary
thoughts o