"Mother, they'll hear you in the other room."
"But I'm not a woman to be ignored and slighted—and pushed aside. There's nothing of the patient Griselda in my nature. I am what I am—all alive still—not done for, and on the shelf. I have subordinated my life to yours—let you rule it how you chose. But you must rule it by kindness—not by cold looks and cutting words. I don't submit to that—I won't submit to it."
"Mother dear, I have told you how grateful I am."
"And gratitude—as you understand it—is no use to me. I've a right—yes, a right to your affection—the natural affection that I've striven to retain, that I've done nothing to forfeit."
"No, no. Mother dear, you have my affection."
"Then what's it worth? Not much—no, not very much, if the first time I appeal to your sense of duty too, it isn't to be found. I tell you not to be a fool—and you swear I am wrecking your life. I'm the villain of your trumpery little drama—plotting and scheming to frustrate your love and spoil your life. That's too rich—that's too good, altogether too good."
The expression of Enid's face had changed from obstinacy to alarm. She watched her mother apprehensively, and stammered some calming phrases.
"Mother dear, I'm sorry. Don't, don't get excited—or I'm sure they'll hear us in the other room."
"Your life, yes. And what about my life?" The words were pouring out in an unchecked torrent. "Look back at my life and see what it has been. You're twenty-two, aren't you? And I was that age more than twenty-two years ago—and all the twenty-two years I've given you. Something for something—not something for nothing. We traders like fair exchange—but you've put yourself above all that.... No, leave me alone. Don't touch me, since you have ceased to care for me."
Enid had come from the piano, and was endeavouring to subdue the emotional explosion by a soothing caress.