ace of some fair lady
hitherto unknown, thus Catching my first glimpse of the philosophy of
clothes.

My memory lingers upon this scene by contrast with the sad, changed
days that swiftly followed, when my mother's eyes would flash towards
my father angry gleams, and her voice ring cruel and hard; though the
moment he was gone her lips would tremble and her eyes grow soft again
and fill with tears; when my father would sit with averted face and
sullen lips tight pressed, or worse, would open them only to pour forth
a rapid flood of savage speech; and fling out of the room, slamming the
door behind him, and I would find him hours afterwards, sitting alone in
the dark, with bowed head between his hands.

Wretched, I would lie awake, hearing through the flimsy walls their
passionate tones, now rising high, now fiercely forced into cold
whispers; and then their words to each other sounded even crueller.

In their estrangement from each other, so new to them, both clung closer
to me, though they would tell me nothing, nor should I have understood
if they had. When my mother was sobbing softly, her arms clasping me
tighter and tighter with each quivering throb, then I hated my father,
who I felt had inflicted this sorrow upon her. Yet when my father drew
me down upon his knee, and I looked into his kind eyes so full of pain,
then I felt angry with my mother, remembering her bitter tongue.

It seemed to me as though some cruel, unseen thing had crept into the
house to stand ever between them, so that they might never look into
each other's loving eyes but only into the eyes of this evil shadow. The
idea grew upon me until at times I could almost detect its outline in
the air, feel a chillness as it passed me. It trod silently through the
pokey rooms, always alert to thrust its grinning face before them.
Now beside my mother it would whisper in her ear; and the next moment,
stealing across to my father, answer for him with his voice, but
strangely different. I used to think I could hear it laughing to itself
as it stepped back into enfolding space.

To this day I seem to see it, ever following with noiseless footsteps
man and woman, waiting patiently its opportunity to thrust its face
between them. So that I can read no love tale, but, glancing round, I
see its mocking eyes behind my shoulder, reading also, with a silent
laugh. So that never can I meet with boy and girl, whispering in the
twilight, but I see it lurking ami