Stella had been listening to the voices for ten minutes before Laurel had become aware of them. She had heard herself described in detail, in cruel detail. She didn’t suppose anybody knew that she “touched” her hair a little now and then. Why, even Lollie didn’t know it. Up to two years ago it hadn’t been necessary, but she did so hate the soft-boiled-egg look when yellow hair begins to turn white. Other women kept themselves young and attractive without being criticized. She had tried not to become a perfect sight for Laurel’s sake, to keep in the running, as far as appearances went, so the child need never be ashamed of her, as she had been of her mother and the mouse-colored wrappers. But she had failed. Why, it was the same story right over again. Laurel was ashamed of her mother, too. It was as plain as the nose on your face. That was the reason Laurel was leaving the hotel. She would die rather than confess it, of course. That was the way Laurel was—as considerate, as gentle, as delicate with her common, ordinary, vulgar mother (weren’t those some of the words the voices had used?) as with the charming Mrs. Grosvenor or the flawless Mrs. Morrison.

Well, what was to be done about it? Now that Stella knew the truth, knew that just her own personality, just her own five senses and the old hulk of a shell they lived in, was like an iron ball tied to Laurel’s ankle (pleasant to learn that about yourself in the middle of the night, when you so wanted to be the wings for your child), well, now that she had learned it, what was the next number on the programme? Laurel being a girl, the voices had said, couldn’t escape, couldn’t break the chain to the ball. Well, then (Stella’s fingers very gently closed over Laurel’s. She still slept—and she really did sleep now)—well, then—It would be pretty awful without her, wouldn’t it? Dear little Lollie!—Let’s see, let’s see. No. No other way.

8

A NARROW RIBBON of sunlight was shining into the berth through a crack by the tightly pulled window-shade by Laurel’s feet when she stirred and woke. Stella was waiting for her, had been waiting all night.

“Well, honey!” she said lightly. “Had a good night?”

Their eyes met.

“Splendid. Have you?”

“Great. Feel lots better.”

No, she didn’t hear, thought Laurel.

No, she didn’t hear, thought Stella.

Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

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