Was it any wonder that I, her only child, loved her so passionately when every one else found her so sweet, beautiful and good?
CHAPTER II.
Lady Conyngham, who was one of the most beautiful and fashionable women in London, came to spend a week with my mother. I knew from different little things that had been said she had some great trouble with her husband, but of course I did not know in the least what it was about.
As a rule, my mother sent me away on some pretext or other when they had their long conversations; on this particular day she forgot me. When Lady Conyngham began to talk I was behind my mother's chair with a book of fairy tales. The first thing that aroused my attention was a sob from Lady Conyngham and my mother saying to her:
"It is quite useless, you know, Isabel, to struggle against the inevitable."
"It is very well for you, Beatrice, to talk in that fashion, you who have never had a trouble in your own life; now, have you?"
"No," replied my beautiful mother, "not a real trouble, thank Heaven," and she clasped her white hands in gratitude.
"Then you cannot judge. You mean well, I know, when you advise me to be patient; but, Beatrice, suppose it were your husband, what should you do?"
"I should do just what I am advising you to do; I should be patient, Isabel."