little nod of her head, "I guess Madge Desmond Anderson can look out
for herself all right."

Then they got up and went away without seeing me. And all of a sudden
I felt almost sorry, for I wanted them to see me. I wanted them to see
that I knew my mother could take care of herself, too, and that I was
proud of it. If they had turned I'd have said so. But they didn't
turn.

I shouldn't like Mr. Harlow for a father. I know I shouldn't. But
then, there's no danger, of course, even if he and Mother were lovers
once. He's got a wife now, and even if he got a divorce, I don't
believe Mother would choose him.

But of course there's no telling which one she will take. As I said
before, I don't know. It's too soon, anyway, to tell. I suspect it
isn't any more proper to hurry up about getting married again when
you've been _un_married by a divorce than it is when you've been
unmarried by your husband's dying. I asked Peter one day how soon
folks did get married after a divorce, but he didn't seem to know.
Anyway, all he said was to stammer: "Er--yes, Miss--no, Miss. I mean,
I don't know, Miss."

Peter is awfully funny. But he's nice. I like him, only I can't find
out much by him. He's very good-looking, though he's quite old. He's
almost thirty. He told me. I asked him. He takes me back and forth to
school every day, so I see quite a lot of him. And, really, he's
about the only one I _can_ ask questions of here, anyway. There isn't
anybody like Nurse Sarah used to be. Olga, the cook, talks so funny I
can't understand a word she says, hardly. Besides, the only two times