Lady Conyngham, who was one of the most beautiful and fashionable women in London, came to spend a week with my mother.

I knew from different little things that had been said she had some great trouble with her husband, but of course I did not know in the least what it was about.
As a rule, my mother sent me away on some pretext or other when they had their long conversations; on this particular day she forgot me.

When Lady Conyngham began to talk I was behind my mother's chair with a book of fairy tales.

The first thing that aroused my attention was a sob from Lady Conyngham and my mother saying to her: "It is quite useless, you know, Isabel, to struggle against the inevitable." "It is very well for you, Beatrice, to talk in that fashion, you who have never had a trouble in your own life; now, have you ?" "No," replied my beautiful mother, "not a real trouble, thank Heaven," and she clasped her white hands in gratitude.
"Then you cannot judge.

You mean well, I know, when you advise me to be patient; but, Beatrice, suppose it were your husband, what should you do ?" "I should do just what I am advising you to do; I should be patient, Isabel." "You would.