COMING HOME
"But, my little Clown, said Darlingest, wiping off the powder. "But, oh———" She scanned the glazed, blurred face. "Tell me why," she said.
"You were late."
"Yes, it was horrid of me; did you mind? . . . But that was silly, Rosalind, I can't be always in."
"But you're my mother."
Darlingest was amused; little trickles of laughter and gratification ran out of her. "You weren't frightened, Silly Billy." Her tone changed to distress. "Oh, Rosalind, don't be cross."
"I'm not," said Rosalind coldly.
"Then come———"
"I was wanting my tea."
"Rosalind, don't be———"
Rosalind walked past her to the door. She was hurting Darlingest, beautifully hurting her. She would never tell her about that essay. Everybody would be talking about it, and when Darlingest heard and asked her about it she would say: "Oh, that? I didn't think you'd be interested." That would hurt. She went down into the
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