"But how is it possible? She seemed so very refined, so distinctly nice in every way."
"Well, I asked the clerk. He told me—"
"You mean the woman in the striped dress?"
"Certainly, certainly. She is that lovely child's mother."
"What a handicap to the poor girl."
"I should say so. All those people she's been playing around with had no idea what her mother was like, I suppose. She's been ill ever since she came. I wish I could have stayed a few days longer and seen just what would have happened when that woman appeared on the scene."
"What's the woman's story?"
"I don't know. I never heard of her before. Dallas is her name, from Boston."
"Poor girl. It's like having a ball and chain around her ankle to be obliged to drag a woman like that after her wherever she goes."
"Yes, but those things happen. Once I knew of a young man—charming—such aristocratic manners, and he came from the commonest family—vulgar people. Of course, being a man, he could escape his family, but a girl—a young girl like that"—the train began to move—"perfectly helpless—branded"—it moved faster—"a shame. Such a pity—Richard Grosvenor—" It moved still faster. The voices were drowned in the rumble of flying steel.
5
Oh, had her mother heard? Was her mother awake? No, Laurel thought not. Her breathing
