to tell you. I wrote you that Eric was on his way to Paris to fetch Connie. He found her, where I thought he would, and they returned to London together. He took rooms for her in a quiet little hotel, which I fear was a mistake, for Connie loathes quiet little hotels, and only goes to them when she must. However, we shall see. She came to see me the other day—poor Connie! She is, to use her own words, a wreck of a woman, but she trails the ghost of her beauty about with her, and Eric tells me people still turn to stare after her in the streets. She tried to talk to me as if we had parted only yesterday, and was as unemotional as one could wish, for which I was thankful, for emotions are only permissible when they are genuine, and not always then.
"I suppose I am a very odd old woman, Stephen, but I only felt for her what I would have felt for any other woman in her position. I had to keep reminding myself that this once beautiful, made-up woman was my daughter. I have never known that feverish mother-love that so many women experience. My children interested, amused and disappointed me—when I was stupid enough to be disappointed. I know better now. I would die for any of my children, but I cannot sentimentalize over them.
