II


The jealously guarded truth was that, by her daughter at least, Mrs.
Condon was adored. Linda observed that she was not like an ordinary
mother, but more nearly resembled a youthful companion. Mrs. Condon's
gaiety was as genuine as her fair hair. Not kept for formal occasion,
it got out of bed with her, remained through the considerable
difficulties of dressing with no maid but Linda, and if the other
were not asleep called a cheerful or funny good night.

Their rooms were separated by a bath, but Linda was scarcely ever in
her own--her mother's lovely things, acting like a magnet,
constantly drew her to their arrangement in the drawers. When the
laundry came up, crisp and fragile webs heaped on the bed, Linda
laid it away in a sort of ritual. Even with these publicly invisible
garments a difference of choice existed between the two: Mrs.
Condon's preference was for insertions, and Linda's for shadow
embroidery and fine shell edges. Mrs. Condon, shaking into position
a foam of ribbon and lace, would say with her gurgle of amusement,
"I want to be ready when I fall down; if I followed your advice
they'd take me for a nun."

This brought out Linda's low clear laugh, the expression of her
extreme happiness. It sounded, for an instant, like a chime of small
silver bells; then died away, leaving the faintest perceptible flush
on her healthy pallor. At other times her mother's humor made her
vaguely uncomfortable, usually after wine or other drinks that left
the elder's breath thick and oppressive. Linda failed completely to
grasp the allusions of this wit but a sharp uneasiness always