"Oh," said the girl with a smile, "you must not imagine I am desperate. I am not, I assure you. The breaking off has been done in two very sensible letters, and we have arranged to be fast friends, and to meet one another as though there never had been anything but friendship between us. You see, mother, there are a great many things upon which we don't agree, and most likely never should, and it would never do to risk life-long bickering. I assure you we behaved more like two elderly people with money or something else practical in view, than two of our age. You know I am not a sentimental girl, and although the thing is unpleasant I shall I am certain never regret the step I have taken in putting an end to what could not otherwise end well for either of us. And now mother do me one favour, will you?"
"Oh, yes, my darling. My darling Dora. My own poor child."
For a moment the girl was compelled to pause to steady her lips and her voice. "Do not speak to me again about this until I speak to you, and--and--and don't let father speak to me either."
"It will kill you, child. It will kill you, my Dora."
Again the girl was compelled to pause. "No. It will not. And mother, don't treat me in any other way than as if it had not occurred. Be just the same to me."
"My darling."
"And," again she had to stop, "above all don't be more affectionate. That would break my heart. Promise."
"I promise."
The girl threw her arms round her mother's neck and kissed her, and the mother burst out crying, and the girl hushed her and petted her, and tried to console her, and asked her to bear up and not to cry.
"I'll try, child, I'll try; but it's very hard, darling."