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.  She took me out of school, though, and had a lady come to teach me all by myself, so I didn’t have to hear those girls brag any more, anyway.  That was better.  But she wasn’t any happier herself.  I could see that.

There were lots of other ladies there—­beautiful ladies—­only she didn’t seem to like them any better than I did the girls.  I wondered if maybe they bragged, too, and I asked her; but she only began to cry again, and moan, “What have I done, what have I done?”—­and I had to try all over again to comfort her.  But I couldn’t.

She got so she just stayed in her room lots and lots.  I tried to make her put on her pretty clothes, and do as the other ladies did, and go out and walk and sit on the big piazzas, and dance, and eat at the pretty little tables.  She did, some, when we first came, and took me, and I just loved it.  They were such beautiful ladies, with their bright eyes, and their red cheeks and jolly ways; and their dresses were so perfectly lovely, all silks and satins and sparkly spangles, and diamonds and rubies and emeralds, and silk stockings, and little bits of gold and silver slippers.

And once I saw two of them smoking.  They had the cutest little cigarettes (Mother said they were) in gold holders, and I knew then that I was seeing life—­real life; not the stupid kind you get back in a country town like Andersonville.  And I said so to Mother; and I was going to ask her if Boston was like that.  But I didn’t get the chance.  She jumped up so quick I thought something had hurt her, and cried, “Good Heavens, Baby!” (How I hate to be called “Baby"!) Then she just threw some money on to the table to pay the bill and hurried me away.