"It's what you said a moment ago: My eyes are opened. At eighteen years of age, you planned your future for yourself. But you needed me—so you claimed me, body and soul! And you've let me give you my whole girlhood—my young womanhood. You've kept me single—and very busy. And now,—I'm an old maid!"
The blue eyes glinted with satisfaction. "Well, you are an old maid."
"An old maid! In other words, my purity's a joke!"
"Now, we're getting vulgar."
"Vulgar? Have you forgotten what you said to Laura Farvel? You taunted her because she's not 'good' as you call it. And you taunt me because I am! But who is farther in the scheme of things—she or I? I envy her because she's borne a child. At least she's a woman. Nature means us to marry and have our little ones. The women who don't obey—what happens to them? The years go"—she looked away now, beyond the walls of Tottie's front-parlor, at a picture her imagining called up—"the light fades from their eyes, the gloss from their hair; they get 'peculiar.' And people laugh at them—and I don't wonder!" Then passionately, "Look at me! Mature! Unmarried! Childless! Where in Nature do I belong? Nowhere! I'm a freak!"
"No, my dear." Mrs. Milo smiled derisively. "You're a martyr."
"Yes! To my mother."
"Don't forget"—the well-bred voice grew shrill—"that I am your mother."
"You gave me birth. But—reproduction isn't motherhood."
"Ah!"—mockingly. "So I haven't loved you!"