Dresser. It ain’t possible.
Mother. It might ’appen, of course. Not that I think anybody could be so heartless as to tell it to her to her face. I had a nephew who was thirty-six years old before he found out that his father was a suicide, but Helen’s manner’s changed, and there’s something at the bottom of it. For the last eight days I’ve noticed that she couldn’t bear my being with her on the promenade. She would only go along lonely paths; when anyone met us she looked the other way; she was nervous, couldn’t manage to get a single word out. There’s something behind all this.
Dresser. Do you mean, if I follow you aright, that the society of her mother is painful to her?—the society of her own mother?
Mother. Yes.
Dresser. No, that’s really a bit too bad.
Mother. Well, I’ll tell you something which is even worse. Would you believe it, that when we came here, she didn’t introduce me to some of her friends on the steamer?
Dresser. Do you know what I think? She’s met someone or other who’s come here during the last week. Come, we’ll just toddle down to the post office and find out about the latest arrivals.
Mother. Yes, let’s do that. I say, Helen, just mind the house a minute. We’re only going down to the post for a moment.
Daughter. Yes, mamma.
Mother.[To DRESSER.] It’s just as though I’d dreamed all this before.