"I do believe, all things considered," said her mother when they were sitting alone one morning over their coffee, "that I am against college for girls!"
Kathleen looked up absent-mindedly from the letter she had been reading. "What's the matter?" she asked vaguely.
"You have scarcely heard a word I have said since you came home," declared Mrs. Fabian. "Your thoughts are a thousand miles away all the time."
"Not a thousand," protested the girl. "Four years is a long time, you know. To break up one's home—to break all those ties—means so much."
"Exactly what I say," retorted Mrs. Fabian. "I should like to know when you will begin again to realize that this is home, and that your father and mother would like some share in your thoughts."
"Why, I must be horribly selfish," returned the girl.
"There it is again!" exclaimed her mother, increasingly nettled. "If it takes unselfishness to show some interest in home after a girl leaves college, I say she had better not go there."
"Very well," returned Kathleen, smiling. "Don't you ever send another daughter; but I'm glad you made the mistake with me. I've been so happy, mother."
"Oh, well," returned Mrs. Fabian, somewhat mollified by the wistfulness of the girl's look and tone, "I suppose you have, and perhaps it is all for the best; but hereafter, when I speak to you, I intend to begin 'Kathleen Fabian!' and you must reply 'Present' before I go on."
"Have you been talking to me?" asked Kathleen naïvely.