"Hello, darling! What time is it?"

Emeline had aged in seven years; she looked hopelessly removed from
youth and beauty now, but later in the day, when her hair would be taken
out of its crimping kids, her sallow cheeks touched with rouge, and her
veined neck covered by a high collar, a coral chain, and an
ostrich-feather ruff, some traces of her former good looks might be
visible. She still affected tight corsets, high heels, enormous hats.
But Emeline's interest in her own appearance was secondary now to her
fierce pride and faith in Julia's beauty. Drifting along the line of
least resistance, asking only to be comfortable and to have a good time,
Emeline had come to a bitter attitude of resentment toward George,
toward the fate that had "forced" her to leave him. Now she began lazily
to fasten upon Julia as the means of gratifying those hopes and
ambitions that were vain for herself. Julia was beautiful, Julia would
be a great success, and some day would repay her mother for the
sacrifices she had made for her child.

Emeline dressed, went about, flirted, and gossiped still; she liked
cocktails and cards and restaurant dinners; she was an authority on all
things theatrical; her favourite pose was that of the martyred mother.
"All I have left," Emeline would say, kissing her daughter effectively,
before strangers. "And only God knows what it has cost me to keep my
girlie with me!"

Julia would grin good-naturedly at this. She had no hallucinations about
her mother. She knew her own value, knew she was pretty, and was glad
with the simple and pathetic complacence of fourteen. Julia at eight had
gone to dancing school, in the briefest skirts ever seen on a small