lse.
She has profited so well by my beautiful influence that she has gone far
beyond the great original. I say I'm horrified," Mrs. Pallant dreadfully
wound up, "because she's horrible."

"My poor extravagant friend," I pleaded, "isn't it still more so to hear
a mother say such things?"

"Why so, if they're abominably true? Besides, I don't care what I say if
I save him."

I could only gape again at this least expected of all my adventures. "Do
you expect me then to repeat to him--?"

"Not in the least," she broke in; "I'll do it myself." At this I uttered
some strong inarticulate protest, but she went on with the grimmest
simplicity: "I was very glad at first, but it would have been better if
we hadn't met."

"I don't agree to that, for you interest me," I rather ruefully
professed, "immensely."

"I don't care if I do--so I interest HIM."

"You must reflect then that your denunciation can only strike me as,
for all its violence, vague and unconvincing. Never had a girl less the
appearance of bearing such charges out. You know how I've admired her."

"You know nothing about her! _I_ do, you see, for she's the work of my
hand!" And Mrs. Pallant laughed for bitterness. "I've watched her for
years, and little by little, for the last two or three, it has come over
me. There's not a tender spot in her whole composition. To arrive at a
brilliant social position, if it were necessary, she would see me drown
in this lake without lifting a finger, she would stand there and see
it--she would push me in--and never feel a pang. That's my young lady!"
Her lucidity chilled me to the soul--it seemed to shine so flawless. "To
climb up to the top and be splendid and envied there," she went on--"to
do that at any cost or by any meanness and cruelty is the only thing she
has a heart for. She'd lie for it, she'd steal for it, she'd kill for
it!" My companion brought out these words with a cold confidence that
had evidently behind it some occult past process of growth. I watched
her pale face and glowing eyes; she held me breathless and frowning, but
her strange vindictive, or at least retributive, passion irresistibly
imposed itself. I found myself at last believing her, pitying her more
than I pitied the subject of her dreadful analysis. It was as if she had
held her tongue for longer than she could bear, suffering more and more
the importunity of the truth. It relieved her thus to drag that to the
light, and still she kept up t