'You always stick up for him, mother. I believe it's because he flatters
you, and says you look younger than any of us.' Ethel's tone was half
roguish, half resentful.

Leonora gave a short unsteady laugh. She knew well that her age was
plainly written beneath her eyes, at the corners of her mouth, under her
chin, at the roots of the hair above her ears, and in her cold,
confident gaze. Youth! She would have forfeited all her experience, her
knowledge, and the charm of her maturity, to recover the irrecoverable!
She envied the woman by her side, and envied her because she was
lightsome, thoughtless, kittenish, simple, unripe. For a brief moment,
vainly coveting the ineffable charm of Ethel's immaturity, she had a
sharp perception of the obscure mutual antipathy which separates one
generation from the next. As the cob rattled into Hillport, that
aristocratic and plutocratic suburb of the town, that haunt of
exclusiveness, that retreat of high life and good tone, she thought how
commonplace, vulgar, and petty was the opulent existence within those
tree-shaded villas, and that she was doomed to droop and die there,
while her girls, still unfledged, might, if they had the sense to use
their wings, fly away.... Yet at the same time it gratified her to
reflect that she and hers were in the picture, and conformed to the
standards; she enjoyed the admiration which the sight of herself and
Ethel and the expensive cob and cart and accoutrements must arouse in
the punctilious and stupid breast of Hillport.

She was picking flowers for the table from the vivid borders of the
lawn, when Ethel ran into the garden from the drawing-room. Bran, the
St. Bernard, was loose and investigating the turf.

'Mother, the letter from Uncle Meshach.'