“Well, yes,” said Laurentia, “I know that; but that is no answer to my question.”
“During his visits here,” continued the young girl, “I was generally alone in his company. At one time you would be engaged at cards; at another you were surrounded by your friends and taken up in discussing some article of toilette or deep in the secrets of a plum-pudding. At another time again, you, as hostess and wife of the chief man in the district, had to do the honours of the house and had to occupy yourself with generals, colonels, presidents and such like; and amidst all this business you had no time to devote to your daughter—”
“But,” cried Laurentia, interrupting her daughter’s words; “that sounds very much like a reproach.”
“Do let me get on, mother dear,” implored Anna; “do let me get on. You have asked me how that affection arose in my heart—I would now lay open my heart to you; you have a right to it; you are my mother.”
“Then,” she resumed, “I felt myself so utterly lonely in those gay circles in which commonplace, self-sufficiency, mediocrity, and frivolity reigned supreme. I felt myself so lonely in the midst of that buzz of conversation which, to me, had no attraction—in the midst of all those people for whom I had the greatest aversion—”
“Anna, Anna!” cried her mother, “take care of what you are saying. Remember it is your parents’ friends and your parents’ company that you are thus censuring.”
“Is it my fault, dearest mother,” continued Anna, “that I feel a distaste for all such society? Have you not often felt the same aversion—tell me, mother dear?”
Laurentia gave no reply; she seemed to devour her daughter’s words.
“Go on,” said she, somewhat sternly.
“Then,” resumed Anna, “I used to slip away quietly to my piano; there I found one never-failing means of getting rid of the company I disliked—then—”