‘I think you’re very unsettled,’ her mother said

‘I didn’t get that from the ground,’ the daughter said.

The mother bridled, stood up to leave, but was impeded by a waiter who was carrying a big chaffing dish, over which a bright blue flame riotously spread. She sat down as if pushed down and said that that remark was the essence of cruelty. The girl said sorry. The mother said she had done all she could and that, without maid, or car or cheque book or any of life’s luxuries. Life’s dainties had not dropped on her path, she had to knit her own sweaters, cut and sew her own skirts, be her own hairdresser. The girl said for God’s sake to let them enjoy it. The mother said that at seventy-eight one had time to think.

‘And at thirty-eight,’ the girl said.