“So you see I’m not so very young. And as for experience ... well, honestly, Mother, I don’t think you’ve had much.”
Claudine was startled. She who had suffered so much, been so cruelly disappointed and mocked by life, who had learned so many, many bitter lessons, to be reproached with lack of experience by this baby? She smiled again, sadly.
“You’ve never been to Europe, or met any famous people, or anything. And you’ve never—” Andrée flushed and hesitated. “You’ve never had any romance. Nothing but just Father, and he’s not very thrilling.”
“My dear!”
“Please don’t be shocked! It makes it so hard to talk to you. It’s no use my pretending that I want a life like yours or that I’d marry a man like Father. I wouldn’t for anything!”
“Andrée, I really—”
Andrée shook her head. She alone of the three had never been drawn to her father, had never been influenced by him.
“No,” she said. “It’s no use talking. I want something very different. I don’t want any stuffy family life. I’d like to go away, by myself—”
“Andrée! Think what you’re saying! How can you be so cruel? What should I do without you?”
“You’ve got Bertie and Edna. And you’re settled down and all that sort of thing. You have lots of things to interest you, but I haven’t anything. That’s why—” Once more she stopped, her cheeks scarlet.