The super-
virtuous girls you read about in books are always blaming their mothers
for such marriages as mine, and so do the comic papers. It's all bosh.
Youth abhors old age. It loves itself too well. But we needn't discuss
responsibilities. The point is this: I have more money than I know what to
do with, so I want to help you out. It isn't because I think it is my
duty, or that I owe it to you, but because I love you, mother. If you had
forced me into marrying Mr. Thorpe, I should hate you now. But I don't,--I
love you dearly. I want you to let me love you. You are so hard to get
close to,--so hard to--"

"My dear, my dear," cried her mother, coming up to her and laying her
hands on the tall girl's shoulders, "you have paid me in full now. What
you have just said pays off all the debts. I was afraid that my children
hated me."

"You poor old dear!" cried Anne, her eyes shining. "If you will only let
me show you how much I can love you. We are pretty much alike, mother, you
and I. We--"

"No!" cried out the other fiercely. "I do not want you to say that. I do
not want you to be like me. Never say that to me again. I want you to be
happy, and you will never be happy if you are like me."

"Piffle!" said Anne, and kissed her mother soundly. And she knew then, as
she had always known, that her mother was not and never could be a happy
woman. Even in her affection for her own children she was the spirit of
selfishness. She loved them for what they meant to her and not for
themselves. She was consistent. She knew herself better than any one else
knew her.

"Now, tell me how much you need," went on Anne, eagerly. "I've hated to
broach the subject to you. It didn't seem right that I should. But I don't
care now. I want to do all that I can."

"I will not offend you, or insult you, Anne, by saying that you are a good
girl,--a better one than I thought you would ever be. You can't help me,
however. Don't worry about me. I shall get on, thank you."

"Just the same, I insist on paying your bills, and setting you straight
once more for another fling. And you are going to Newport this week. Come,
now, mother dear, let's get it over with. Tell me about _everything_. You
may hop into debt again just as soon as you like, but I'll feel a good
deal better if I know that it isn't on my account. It isn't right that you
should still have George and me hanging about your neck like millstones.
Come! I insist. Let's figure it all up.