II.
"Mary, why are you always admiring yourself in the glass?"
"I'm not admiring myself. I only wanted to see if I was better-looking than last time."
"Why are you worrying about it? You never used to."
"Because I used to think I was pretty."
Her mother smiled. "You were pretty." And took back her smile. "You'd be pretty always if you were happy, and you'd be happy if you were good. There's no happiness for any of us without Christ."
She ignored the dexterous application.
"Do you mean I'm not, then, really, so very ugly?"
"Nobody said you were ugly."
"Maurice Jourdain did."
"You don't mean to say you're still thinking of that man?"
"Not thinking exactly. Only wondering. Wondering what it was he hated so."
"You wouldn't wonder if you knew the sort of man he is. A man who could threaten you with his infidelity."
"He never threatened me."
"I suppose it was me he threatened, then."
"What did he say?"
"He said that if his wife didn't take care to please him there were other women who would."
"He ought to have said that to me. It was horrible of him to say it to you."
She didn't know why she felt that it was horrible.
"I can tell you one thing," said her mother, as if she had not told her anything. "It was those books you read. That everlasting philosophy. He said it was answerable for the whole thing."
"Then it was the—the whole thing he hated."
"I suppose so," her mother said, dismissing a matter of small interest.
"You'd better change that skirt if you're going with me to Mrs. Waugh's."
"Do you mind if I go for a walk instead?"
"Not if it makes you any more contented."
"It might. Are you sure you don't mind?"
"Oh, go along with you!"
Her mother was pleased. She was always pleased when she scored a point against philosophy.