But I couldn't have borne anything from Mother--not then--and she knew
it. How did she know? That's what gets me. But she did, the way she's
always seemed to know things without being told. She's that sort, you
see.

They all went down to the station with me, in the seven-passenger,
with Dad driving. We didn't talk much on the way. I tried not to see
the familiar old streets. I hadn't told anybody what train I was going
on, but some of my old friends found out and came down just the same,
and were there in a bunch to send me off. They hurried up to us, and
shook hands and jollied me, and everything was lively. When the train
came in we all went together to it, and then I saw the boys stand back
and look at Mother. I don't know what they expected to see, but I'm
pretty sure it wasn't what they did see.

It was evening, but instead of putting on an awfully stunning
fur-bordered coat over the things she'd worn to dinner, as she usually
does when she goes out in the car at night, Mother'd taken the trouble
to go back to the tailored suit and little close hat she wears in the
street and for driving. She knows I like her best that way--and I
certainly did that night. I can't tell you why, except that the things
we've always done together have been mostly in street-and-sports
clothes--tramping and motoring and golfing--and so forth. She always
seems more like a sort of good chum dressed like that than when she
puts on trailers and silky things--though, my word! if you don't think
she's a peach in evening dress you never saw her. Her neck and
shoulders--but that's neither here nor there just now. The thing I'm
telling is that she'd gone back to the clothes that make her look like
a jolly girl, and I knew she'd done it so I could remember her that
way.