“Katharine, dear child,” she began, “I’m not changed to you—it’s only—”
“Yes—it’s only Jack!” answered Katharine, bitterly.
“We won’t talk of him, darling,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, softly, and trying to soothe her. “You see, I didn’t know how badly you felt about it—”
“You might have guessed. You know that I love him—you never knew how much!”
“Yes, sweetheart, but now—”
“There is no ‘but’—it’s the passion of my life—the first, the last, and the only one!”
“You’re so young, my darling, that it seems to you as though there could never be anything else—”
“Seems! I know.”
Though Mrs. Lauderdale had already repented of what she had done and really wished to be sympathetic, she could not help smiling faintly at the absolute conviction with which Katharine spoke. There was something so young and whole-hearted in the tone as well as in those words that only found an echo far back in the forgotten fields of the older woman’s understanding. She hardly knew what to answer, and patted Katharine’s head gently while she sought for something to say. But Katharine resented the affectionate manner, being in no humour to appreciate anything which had a savour of artificiality about it. She withdrew her hand and faced her mother again.
“I know all that you can tell me,” she said. “I know all there is to be known, without reading that vile thing. But I don’t know what I shall do—I shall decide. And, please—mother—if you care for me at all—don’t talk about it. It’s hard enough, as it is—just the thing, without any words.”