"I don't look at it like that at all. I'm free. I'm going to have a rattling good time."
"Mother!" She still retained her affectionate attitude, but it had become official, perfunctory. All the warmth in her died out, leaving a chill horror. "Mother—you can't mean what you say! If you do you must be mad or very wicked."
"I daresay both, my dear. I really don't care. I'm free—that's how I feel about it. I'm going to make up for lost time——"
Anne shrank away from her.
"It's awful—horrible——"
Mrs. Boucicault threw her rose petulantly into the garden. She had only worn it a short time, and it had already withered.
"I guessed you would feel like that. If you don't like it you could go down to Trichy and stay with the Osbornes. They are your father's relations, and they always hated me, so you'll get on. Of course I don't want to persuade you. I'm very fond of you, Anne. I should like you to stay."
"And watch you make a mock of my father's misery?"
"No, Anne—only having a good time."
"It would make me sick to see you."