responded like the lingering stale memory of a bad dream.

Once, at the Boscombe, her mother had been too silly for words: she
had giggled and embraced her sweet little girl, torn an expensive
veil to shreds and dropped a French model hat into the tub. After a
distressing sickness she had gone to sleep fully dressed, and Linda,
unable to move or wake her, had sat long beyond dinner into the
night, fearful of the entrance of the chambermaid.

The next day Mrs. Condon had been humble with remorse. Men, she
said, were too beastly for description. This was not an unusual
opinion. Linda observed that she was always condemning men in
general and dressing for them in particular. She offered Linda
endless advice in an abstracted manner:

"They're all liars, Lin, and stingy about everything but their
pleasure. Women are different but men are all alike. You get sick to
death of them! Never bother them when they are smoking a cigar;
cigarettes don't matter. Leave the cigarette-smokers alone, anyhow;
they're not as dependable as the others. A man with a good cigar--you
must know the good from the bad--is usually discreet. I ought to
bring you up different, but, Lord, life's too short. Besides, you
will learn more useful things right with mama, whose eyes are open,
than anywhere else.

"Powder my back, darling; I can't reach. If I'm a little late to-night
go to sleep like a duck. You think Mr. Jasper's nice, don't you?
So does mother. But you mustn't let him give you any more money.
It'll make him conceited."