"Sit down, Barbara," she said. "I hope you were not lonely
last night?"
"I am never lonely, mother. I always have things to think
about."
I said this in a very pathetic tone.
"What sort of things?" mother asked, rather sharply.
"Oh--things," I said vaguely. "Life is such a mess, isn't
it?"
"Certainly not. Unless one makes it so."
"But it is so difficult. Things come up and--and it's hard
to know what to do. The only way, I suppose, is to be true to
one's beleif in one's self."
"Take that thing off my head and go out, Hannah," mother
snapped. "Now then, Barbara, what in the world has come over
you?"
"Over me? Nothing."
"You are being a silly child."
"I am no longer a child, mother. I am seventeen. And at
seventeen there are problems. After all, one's life is one's
own. One must decide----"
"Now, Barbara, I am not going to have any nonsense. You
must put that man out of your head."
"Man? What man?"
"You think you are in love with some drivelling young Fool.
I'm not blind, or an idot. And I won't have it."
"I have not said that there is anyone, have I?" I said in
a gentle voice.
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