"All which, mamma?" Can any one blame her in that she so far
equivocated?

"Clara, you know very well what I mean. What has there been between
you and Mr. Fitzgerald?"

The guilt-stricken wretch sat silent for a while, sustaining the
scrutiny of her mother's gaze; and then falling from her chair on to
her knees, she hid her face in her mother's lap, exclaiming, "Oh,
mamma, mamma, do not look at me like that!"

Lady Desmond's heart was somewhat softened by this appeal; nor would
I have it thought that she was a cruel woman, or an unnatural
mother. It had not been her lot to make an absolute, dearest,
heartiest friend of her daughter, as some mothers do; a friend
between whom and herself there should be, nay could be, no secrets.
She could not become young again in sharing the romance of her
daughter's love, in enjoying the gaieties of her daughter's balls,
in planning dresses, amusements, and triumphs with her child. Some
mothers can do this; and they, I think, are the mothers who enjoy
most fully the delights of maternity. This was not the case with
Lady Desmond; but yet she loved her child, and would have made any
reasonable sacrifice for what she regarded as that child's welfare.

"But, my dear," she said, in a softened tone, "you must tell me what
has occurred. Do you not know that it is my duty to ask, and yours
to tell me? It cannot be right that there should be any secret
understanding between yourself and Mr. Fitzgerald. You know that,
Clara, do you not?"