No, of course not, because imitation filet “never fooled anybody,” Laurel’s mother had often told her. In fact, she had said, only a short fortnight ago, that there wasn’t anything a woman could make more show with, at present, than a lot of splashy real lace, or anything that could kill her socially as surely as the imitation stuff.

Laurel wondered if to the really discerning her mother’s imitation pearls were like imitation filet.

2

THE NEXT DAY Laurel asked Mrs. Morrison if she had ever seen her mother. Her mother’s name by then was mentioned with perfect ease between them.

“No, I never have, Laurel,” said Mrs. Morrison. “Tell me about her.” They were walking in the garden. “Is she like you?”

“Oh, no,” said Laurel. “She’s not the least like me. She hasn’t a single freckle. And her hair is yellow. She was born with it yellow, like you with your permanent.” Which was true. Mrs. Dallas had not tampered with the color of her hair as yet. “Her eyes,” Laurel went on, “are blue—the color of that little blue pitcher you said was Delft, that you used one morning at breakfast. And her skin is like the cream in it.”

“She must be lovely.”

“Oh, she is, she is,” flashed Laurel.

“Haven’t you her picture?”

“No. Not here.” After a pause Laurel added gravely, “I never bring her picture to New York when I come to see my father.”

It was the first reference she had made to the relation that existed between her mother and father. But Mrs. Morrison made as casual a reply to it, as if it had been a frequent topic of conversation between them.

“Of course you don’t. I didn’t think for a minute. Naturally it’s kinder not to.”

Oh, how easy it was to talk to Mrs. Morrison! Questions Laurel had long wanted to know the answers to crowded to her lips. Why are my mother and father different from other mothers and fathers? Why don’t they live together? Why aren’t people nice to my mother? And why are they nice to my father? But she didn’t allow one of them to escape. Not yet. Nor did Mrs. Morrison allow a question to escape either. They simply walked on in silence till they came to a turn in the garden path where some late pansies were blooming.

“Let’s pick some,” said Mrs. Morrison.

“Let’s,” said Laurel, and they leaned down together over the low-growing flowers.

Laurel’s heart was beating fast. She could feel it. Between herself and this lovely lady the gossamer-like bond of sympathy, as delicate at first as a thread of a spider’s web, had become now as strong as the silk cable pearls are strung on. It would bear actual spoken words about her father’s and mother’s separation!