“I—I don’t want to quarrel, mother,” cried Cora, “but if you dare to speak to me again like that I’ll not be answerable for myself.”
“There!—there!—there! There’s gratitude!”
“Gratitude? Where should I have been but for Mr Linnell’s bravery, and which of the wretched dressed-up and titled dandies stirred to save me the other day? Richard Linnell is a brave, true-hearted man, too good to marry an actress.”
“She’s mad—she’s mad—she’s mad! There’s grace; and to her mother, too, who’s thought of nothing but getting her on in the world, and brought her forward, so that now she can live on the best of everything, in the handsomest of rooms, and keep her carriage. She flies in her poor mother’s face, and wants to get rid of her, I suppose. Oho—oho—oh!”
Mrs Dean plumped herself down into a gilded chair, and began to howl very softly.
“Don’t be a fool, mother,” said Cora. “I don’t want to quarrel, I tell you, so hold your tongue.”
“After the way I’ve brought her up, too,” howled Mrs Dean—softly, so that the sound should not be heard downstairs.
“After the way you’ve brought me up!” cried Cora fiercely. “Yes; brought me up to be sneered at by every lady I meet—brought me up so that I hate myself, and long sometimes to be one of the poor women we see knitting stockings on the beach.”
“Don’t be a fool, Cory, my handsome, beautiful gal,” cried Mrs Dean, suddenly starting up in her seat, dry-eyed and forgetful of her grief. “How can you be so stupid!”
“Stupid!” cried Cora bitterly. “Is it stupid to wish myself a woman that some true-hearted man could love, instead of looking forward to a life of acting.”