CHAPTER XIII.
You, my fair young readers, will imagine that nothing could be easier than to go to your mother, and tell her—well, anything on earth. That is because you have the right kind of a mother. I had the wrong kind. I am well aware that such a sentiment is not pretty from anybody's lips, but as you already know, I am one of those candid beings who conceal nothing, even when concealment might be beneficial.
There had never been any confidence between my mother and me. She had always considered me uninteresting, and I—well, I could never realize that she really existed out of society. Her ambition never extended beyond the "set" in which she moved; her ideas were suggested invariably by those immediately above her in rank; worldliness reigned rampant within her.
I had been glad to leave her house, and rejoiced to escape from society's prospective
