He mechanically followed. He might as well act the fool to the end of the chapter, he thought. It was eleven by the parlor clock, but the mother seemed greatly relieved when she saw Dorian with her daughter. Carlia threw off her wraps. She appeared ill at ease. Her gaiety was forced. She seemed to be acting a part, but she was doing it poorly. Dorian was not only ill at ease himself, but he was bewildered. He seated himself on the sofa. Carlia took a chair on the other side of the room and gazed out of the window into the night.
"Carlia, why did you—why do you," he stammered.
"Why shouldn't I?" she replied, somewhat defiantly as if she understood his unfinished question.
"You know you should not. It's wrong. Who is he anyway?"
"He at least thinks of me and wants to show me a good time, and that's more than anybody else does."
"Carlia!"
"Well, that's the truth." She arose, walked to the table in the middle of the room and stood challengingly before him. "Who are you to find fault? What have you done to—"
"I'll admit I've done very little; but you, yourself."
"Never mind me. What do you care for me? What does anybody care?"
"Your mother, at least."