"Leave me to myself—leave me alone. I'm nothing to you—and you know it."
Enid's caress was roughly repulsed; and Mrs. Thompson sat upon the sofa, hid her flushed face upon her arms, and burst into a fit of almost hysterical sobbing.
"Mother, mother—don't, please don't;" and Enid sat beside her, patted her shoulder, and begged her quickly to compose herself lest the gentlemen should come and see her in her distress.
"It's so cruel," sobbed Mrs. Thompson. "And now—now of all times, I can't bear it.... But I mustn't let myself go like this. I daren't give way like this."
Then very soon her broad back ceased to shake; the convulsing gasping sobs were suppressed, and she sat up and dried her eyes.
"Enid, have I made a horrible fright of myself?" And she rose from the sofa, and went to look in the glass over the fireplace. The tears had left little trace; the reflection in the glass reassured her.
She was comparatively calm when she returned to the sofa and sat down again.
"Enid, my dear, I'm ashamed to have been betrayed into such weakness," and she smiled piteously. "But you have tested me too severely of late—since this unlucky affair began. I have thought myself strong enough; but the strongest things have their snapping point—even iron and steel;—and I am only flesh and blood.... You don't understand, but I warn you that I need the sympathy and the kindness which you withhold from me.... Be nice to me—be kind to me."
But Enid was crying now. Tears trickled down her narrow face. The strange sight of her mother's violent and explosive distress had quite overcome her.
"I do try to do what's right," she whimpered.