Mrs. H. (with a slight grimace). I met her last winter at the Bishop's. (Hurriedly.) She's a connection of his wife's. They'd got her to help with some of their work. Then she took hold of ours. Your aunt and uncle are quite foolish about her, and I'm debarred from taking any steps, at least till the Shelter is out of hand.
Jean. I do rather wonder she can bring herself to talk about—the unfortunate women of the world.
Mrs. H. The effrontery of it!
Jean. Or ... the courage! (Puts her hand up to her throat as if the sentence had caught there.)
Mrs. H. Even presumes to set me right! Of course I don't mind in the least, poor soul ... but I feel I owe it to your dead mother to tell you about her, especially as you're old enough now to know something about life——
Jean (slowly).—and since a girl needn't be very old to suffer for her ignorance. (Moves a little away.) I felt she was rather wonderful.
Mrs. H. Wonderful!
Jean (pausing). ... To have lived through that when she was ... how old?
Mrs. H. (rising). Oh, nineteen or thereabouts.
Jean. Five years younger than I. To be abandoned and to come out of it like this!