Miss Loring by this time had walked toward the door of her own room, for her mother’s voice when raised, was easily heard in every part of the big house.
“I’m not going out to-night, Mother,” she repeated quietly, shutting the door behind them.
“Jane,” Mrs. Loring cried petulantly. “Mrs. Dorsey-Martin is counting on you. She’s asked some people especially to meet you—the Perrines, the Endicotts, and Mr. Van Duyn, and you know how much he will be disappointed. Lie down on the couch for a moment, and take something for your nerves. You’ll feel better soon, that’s a dear girl.”
The unhappy lady put her arm around her daughter’s waist and led her toward the divan.
“I knew you would, Jane dear. There. You’ve got so much good sense——”
Miss Loring sank listlessly on the couch, her gaze fixed on the flowered hangings at her windows. Her body had yielded to her mother’s insistence, but her thoughts were elsewhere. But as Mrs. Loring moved toward the bell to call the maid, her daughter stopped her with a gesture.
“It isn’t any use, Mother. I’m not going,” she said wearily.
The older woman stopped and looked at her daughter aghast.
“You really mean it, Jane! You ungrateful girl! I’ve always said that you were eccentric, but you’re obstinate, too, and self-willed. A headache!” scornfully. “Why, last year I went to the opera in Mrs. Poultney’s box when I thought I should die at any moment! I don’t believe you have a headache. You’re lying to me—hiding inside yourself the way you always do when I want your help and sympathy most. I don’t understand you at all. You’re no daughter of mine. When I’m trying so hard to give you your proper place in the world, to have you meet the people who will do us the most good! It’s a shame, I tell you, to treat me so. Why did I bring you up with so much care? See that your associates out home should be what I thought proper for a girl with the future that your father was making for you? Why did I take you abroad and give you all the advantages of European training and culture? Have you taught music and French and art? For this? To find that your only pleasure is in books and walks in the Park—and in the occasional visits of the friends of your youth whom you should long since have outgrown? It’s an outrage to treat me so—an outrage!”
Unable longer to control the violence of her emotions, the poor woman sank into a chair and burst into tears. Miss Loring rose slowly and put her arms around her mother’s shoulders.