conversations with her nowadays. Mrs. Loamford, normally the most voluble of women, was dropping into the habit of saying, “and, Dorothy.” without completing the sentence.
Dorothy thought at first that her mother had discovered Arnold’s picture stowed away in the desk and that she was on the verge of asking whether her little girl had anything to tell her. But a casual allusion to Arnold brought no noteworthy response. It wasn’t Arnold, then, who was on her mother’s mind. It wasn’t until late one afternoon, when Dorothy was reading the proceedings of a divorce case in a newspaper, that Mrs. Loamford unburdened herself.
“I must talk to you, Dorothy,” she said agitatedly.
She pulled herself out of the sitting-room easy chair, and locked the doors cautiously. What was it that the servants couldn’t hear? Generally, Mrs. Loamford seemed to be willing that all who were within a powerful earshot should ascertain her opinions on all subjects.
Mrs. Loamford closed her knitting bag auspiciously, and turned to Dorothy.
“Sit close to me, Dorothy,” she said.
Dorothy moved to a small chair beside her mother’s. This was nothing if not the prelude to something thrilling. “Dorothy,” said her mother, in the lowest voice that ever Dorothy had heard, “I feel that I would not be doing my duty as a mother to you if I did not tell you certain things which—which ought to be a part of—which every girl in your position should know.”
It was a horrible disappointment. Dorothy suspected what would follow. Her mother would tell her "the facts of life." Poor mother! So this was what had worried her-and Dorothy had known "the facts of life" for years! It was the favorite topic of conversation
[55]
