But she had swift and deep
intuitions, and in spite of the natural volatility of youth, free of care,
she was fundamentally emotional and intense.
Swept from her poor little girlish moorings in the sophisticated sea of the
twentieth-century maiden, she had a sudden wild access of conscience;
she flung herself into her mother's arms and poured out the tale of her
nocturnal transgressions, her frequent excursions into the forbidden realm
of modern San Francisco, of her immense acquaintance with people whose very
names were unknown to Mrs. Groome, born Ballinger.
Then she scrambled to her feet and stood twisting her hands together,
expecting a burst of wrath that would further reveal the pent-up fires in
this long-sealed volcano; for Alexina was inclined to the exaggerations
of her sex and years and would not have been surprised if her mother,
masterpiece of a lost art, had suddenly become as elementary as the forces
that had devastated San Francisco.
But there was only dismay in Mrs. Groome's eyes as she stared at her
repentant daughter. Her heart sank still lower. She had never been a vain
woman, but she had prided herself upon not feeling old. Suddenly, she felt
very old, and helpless.
"Well," she said in a moment. "Well--I suppose I have been wrong. There are
almost two generations between us. I haven't kept up. And you are naturally
a truthful child--I should have--"
"Oh, mother, you are not blaming yourself!" Alexina felt as if the earth
once more were dancing beneath her unsteady feet.
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