Imogen's next words broke out even more vehemently. "I can't leave this house! I can't! It is my home." The tears ran down her face.
"My poor darling!" her mother exclaimed. She rose quickly and came round the table to her, putting her arm around her and trying to draw her near.
But Imogen, covering her eyes with one hand, held her off. "It's wrong.
It's unfair. I should have been told before."
"Imogen, I did not know. I was not admitted to your father's confidence.
I used to speak to you sometimes, you must remember, about being careful."
"I never thought about it. I thought he made a great deal—I thought you had a great deal of money," Imogen sobbed.
"It is my fault, in one sense, I know," her mother said, still standing beside her, her hand on her shoulder. "If I had been here I could have prevented some of it. But—it has seemed so inevitable." The tears rose in Valerie's eyes also; she looked away to conquer them. "Don't blame me too much, dear. I shall try to do my best now. And then, after all, it's not of such tragic importance, is it? We can be very happy with what we have."
Imogen wept on: "Leave my home!"
"There, there. Don't cry so. We won't leave it. We will manage somehow. We will stay on here, for a time at least—until you marry, Imogen. You will probably marry," and Valerie attempted a softly rallying smile, "before so very long."
But the attempt was an unfortunately timed one. "Oh, mama! don't—don't—bring your horrible European point of view into that, too!" cried Imogen.
"What point of view? Indeed, indeed, dear, I didn't mean to hurt you, to be indiscreet—"