They were looking across the room at Mother.  Mr. Harlow was talking to her.  He was leaning forward in his chair and talking so earnestly to Mother; and he looked just as if he thought there wasn’t another soul in the room but just they two.  But Mother—­Mother was just listening to be polite to company.  Anybody could see that.  And the very first chance she got she turned and began to talk to a lady who was standing near.  And she never so much as looked toward Mr. Harlow again.

The ladies in front of me laughed then, and one of them said, with a little nod of her head, “I guess Madge Desmond Anderson can look out for herself all right.”

Then they got up and went away without seeing me.  And all of a sudden I felt almost sorry, for I wanted them to see me.  I wanted them to see that I knew my mother could take care of herself, too, and that I was proud of it.  If they had turned I’d have said so.  But they didn’t turn.

I shouldn’t like Mr. Harlow for a father.  I know I shouldn’t.  But then, there’s no danger, of course, even if he and Mother were lovers once.  He’s got a wife now, and even if he got a divorce, I don’t believe Mother would choose him.

But of course there’s no telling which one she will take.  As I said before, I don’t know.  It’s too soon, anyway, to tell.  I suspect it isn’t any more proper to hurry up about getting married again when you’ve been unmarried by a divorce than it is when you’ve been unmarried by your husband’s dying.  I asked Peter one day how soon folks did get married after a divorce, but he didn’t seem to know.  Anyway, all he said was to stammer:  “Er—­yes, Miss—­no, Miss.  I mean, I don’t know, Miss.”

Peter is awfully funny.  But he’s nice.  I like him, only I can’t find out much by him.  He’s very good-looking, though he’s quite old.  He’s almost thirty.  He told me.  I asked him.  He takes me back and forth to school every day, so I see quite a lot of him.  And, really, he’s about the only one I can ask questions of here, anyway.  There isn’t anybody like Nurse Sarah used to be.  Olga, the cook, talks so funny I can’t understand a word she says, hardly.  Besides, the only two times I’ve been down to the kitchen Aunt Hattie sent for me; and she told me the last time not to go any more.  She didn’t say why.  Aunt Hattie never says why not to do things.  She just says, “Don’t.”  Sometimes it seems to me as if my whole life had been made up of “don’ts.”  If they’d only tell us part of the time things to “do,” maybe we wouldn’t have so much time to do the “don’ts.” (That sounds funny, but I guess folks’ll know what I mean.)