"It's a funny thing, Del, but some way you never seem married, to me."
"I was married, I assure you. I remember it very distinctly. White is not becoming to me, so I wore a dark blue cashmere dress and a stunning black toque with little feathers—you remember? And Henry thought I was so sensible and so above feminine frivolities."
"It is awfully hard to know what is right and wrong, I must say. You certainly make Mr. Hadwell perfectly happy and you are an ideal mother. Perhaps you are more in the right than I think."
"My dear, I have read somewhere that there are certain plants which die just as soon as they have propagated. That is all they exist for; just to reproduce their own life and then die. Now there are a good many women in the world who are like these plants. They are not half as good mothers, not half as satisfactory wives as I am; but they are devoid of all possibility of offending because, to all intents and purposes, they died with the birth of their first child. Henceforth they exist in a modified form. They are no longer individuals but vegetables. All the young plant needs is air and light; but, as the young human needs food, clothes, exercise and various other things, they exist solely for the purpose of furnishing it with those things. They are incapable of holding an opinion or formulating a thought; they all think exactly alike on all subjects—which means, practically, that they do not think at all—their education, intellectually, stopped when they graduated from school, their education, emotionally, when they married. Are they more commendable than I? What do they do that I don't? Only I do other things in addition. I am a living woman, not a maternal cipher. I have a heart and a mind and a life of my own and these develop side by side with the development of my children. Of course the mere fact of life existing means that there are possibilities of mistakes being made, faults being committed; but isn't it better to live than to die? Lynn, I didn't know I was so clever! Aren't you proud of me?"
"Proud of you, all round, Del, except that I still wish you didn't flirt. Even if you are not in love with your husband it is bad form to publish the fact. And the very fact that you are still alive—very much alive—and capable of leading a life apart from your children makes your way of acting dangerous. I am always afraid that some day you will"—
"That some day I shall fall in love and make a fool of myself? Don't worry. Some women are dominated by one of the great primal instincts, some by another. I am a mother, first and last and always. Men are only things to play with, but my children are necessities. I could never do anything that would cause them a moment's anxiety or difficulty in the future. No, my dear! When little Aileen is enjoying her first season her mother will be the same irreproachable, if frivolous, matron that she is at present. What a serious conversation we have drifted into, haven't we? I don't like it—seriousness! Dear me, Lynn, what in the world should I do if anything were to happen to you? You're the only person whom I dare to be myself with. Catch me trusting another woman. What makes you so unlike other women, Lynn?"
"Possibly the lack of sense for which you were upbraiding me so heartily a little while ago," said Lynn, slyly. "By the way, Del, that name, 'Waite,' is strangely familiar to me. Oh, of course! I know, now. I had a little pupil, once"—
"Oh, Lynn, please don't start to talk about those ragamuffins of yours. I should think you would be glad to put them out of your mind for a few hours."
"He was a most unfortunate child," pursued Lynn, unheeding. "He was plain and stupid and he knew it: and he came from a different social class from most of the others, which seemed to put the final touch to his isolation. I was glad when he died, poor little chap! He was devoted to me and I made a great pet of him because he seemed so lonely. I wonder if"—
"Oh, a Gorgon-faced, icebergy automaton like Mrs. Waite never had a child in her life, I'm sure. Here we are at last."