That made me mad, and I let them see it, good and plain. I told them
our divorce was perfectly all right and genteel and respectable; that
Nurse Sarah said it was. Ours was going to be incompatibility, for
one thing, which meant that you got on each other's nerves, and just
naturally didn't care for each other any more. But they only laughed,
and said even more disagreeable things, so that I didn't want to go
to school any longer, and I told Mother so, and the reason, too, of
course.
But, dear me, I wished right off that I hadn't. I supposed she was
going to be superb and haughty and disdainful, and say things that
would put those girls where they belonged. But, my stars! How could I
know that she was going to burst into such a storm of sobs and clasp
me to her bosom, and get my face all wet and cry out: "Oh, my baby, my
baby--to think I have subjected you to this, my baby, my baby!"
And I couldn't say a thing to comfort her, or make her stop, even when
I told her over and over again that I wasn't a baby. I was almost a
young lady; and I wasn't being subjected to anything bad. I _liked_
it--only I didn't like to have those girls brag so, when our divorce
was away ahead of theirs, anyway.
But she only cried more and more, and held me tighter and tighter,
rocking back and forth in her chair.
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