tention, and, by working it into her system, relieve at least one of her parents. This would make every time, for Maisie, after her inevitable six months with Beale, much more of a change.
"More of a change?" Ida cried. "Won't it be enough of a change for her to come from that low brute to the person in the world who detests him most."
"No, because you detest him so much that you'll always talk to her about him. You'll keep him before her by perpetually abusing him."
Mrs. Farange stared. "Pray, then, am I to do nothing to counteract his villainous abuse of me?"
The good lady, for a moment, made no reply. Her silence was a grim judgment of the whole point of view. "Poor little monkey!" she at last exclaimed, and the words were an epitaph for the tomb of Maisie's childhood. She was abandoned to her fate. What was clear to any spectator was that the only link binding her to either parent was this lamentable fact of her being a ready vessel for bitterness, a deep little porcelain cup in which biting acids could be mixed. They had wanted her, not for any
