“I wish now I had had you have a permanent. Some children are having it, and I don’t believe for a minute that it would do good strong hair of yours a mite of harm, the way it’s done way down at the ends for long curls, so I’m told. One reason I can keep your hair long like some of the most distinguished children, instead of bobbing it off like an errand girl’s in a department store, is because I’m always Johnny-on-the-spot with the curling rags. There’s nothing worse than long, straight, Indian hair these days. Oh, I do wish I had had the permanent, but I simply couldn’t afford it and your new trunk, too. It would be pleasant if your father gave you a few things you need once in a while. For goodness’ sakes,” she broke off, “if your father asks you when you’re down there this time, what books you want for Christmas, tell him you can get books for nothing from the public library, but there’s no public institution where you can get fur coats for nothing, or a wrist-watch, and all the girls you know—or ought to know—have fur coats now, and wristwatches of their own.”

“I’ll tell him,” Laurel said. “Shan’t we get up pretty soon?”

“Terribly anxious to get started, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no, I’m not anxious a bit,” Laurel denied, and she stuck her hands back again under her head as proof; “I’m in no hurry. But it’s only three hours to train-time, and I thought—”

“Never mind. That’s all right. I don’t blame you, kiddie,” her mother said, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Funny,” she remarked, with her eyes still upon Laurel, “how I can’t seem to remember what you look like once you get away.” She sniffed. “I’m going to just about die without you, Lollie!” she exclaimed.

“I know it,” said Laurel calmly, staring up at the ceiling, but with not a sign of tears herself.

Her mother sniffed again. “And to think,” she said, “I didn’t want you once. I didn’t want you a bit before you were born.” Then with a sudden determination she threw back the bedclothes. “Come,” she ejaculated, “let’s do get up!” and she swung her feet around onto the bare floor.

6

SHE WAS A fat, shapeless little ball of a woman in her nightgown. A plain unattractive nightgown it was, made of a crinkly material that didn’t require ironing, with a soiled blue ribbon straggling halfway around the neck. She pulled on a cheap cotton-crêpe kimono over the nightgown. The kimono had been lavender once, but it had faded to somewhat the same ashen color as her face now. She slipped her feet into some bedroom slippers very much out of repair.