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From her husband and her children, Flora exacted service that would have chafed a galley slave into rebellion. She loved to lie in bed, in an orchid bed jacket with ribbons, and be read to by Adele, or Eugene, or her husband. They all hated it.

“She just wants to be waited on, and petted, and admired,” Adele had stormed one day, in open rebellion, to her Aunt Sophy. “She uses it as an excuse for everything and has, ever since Gene and I were children. She’s as strong as an ox.” Not a daughterly speech, but true.

Years before, a generous but misguided woman friend, coming in to call, had been ushered in to where Mrs. Baldwin lay propped up in a nest of pillows.

“Well, I don’t blame you,” the caller had gushed. “If I looked the way you do in bed I’d stay there forever. Don’t tell me you’re sick, with all that lovely color!”

Flora Baldwin had rolled her eyes ceilingward. “Nobody ever gives me credit for all my suffering and ill-health. And just because all my blood is in my cheeks.”

Flora was ambitious, socially, but too lazy to make the effort necessary for success in that direction.

“I love my family,” she would say. “They fill my life. After all, that’s a profession in itself–being a wife and mother.”

She showed her devotion by taking no interest whatever in her husband’s land schemes; by forbidding Eugene to play football at school for fear he might be injured; by impressing Adele with the necessity for vivacity and modishness because of what she called her unfortunate lack of beauty.

“I don’t understand it,” she used to say in the child’s presence. “Her father’s handsome enough, goodness knows; and I wasn’t such a fright when I was a girl. And look at her! Little dark skinny thing.”

The boy, Eugene, grew up a very silent, handsome, shy young fellow. The girl, dark, voluble, and rather interesting. The husband, more and more immersed in his business, was absent from home for long periods irritable after some of these home-comings; boisterously high-spirited following other trips. Now growling about household expenses and unpaid bills; now urging the purchase of some almost prohibitive luxury. Anyone but a nagging, self-absorbed, and vain woman such as Flora would have marked these unmistakable signs. But Flora was a taker, not a giver. She thought herself affectionate because she craved affection unduly. She thought herself a fond mother because she insisted on having her children with her, under her thumb, marking their devotion as a prisoner marks time with his feet, stupidly, shufflingly, advancing not a step.

Sometimes Sophy, the clear-eyed, seeing this state of affairs, tried to stop it.

“You expect too much of your husband and children,” she said one day, bluntly, to her sister.

“I!” Flora’s dimpled hand had flown to her breast like a wounded thing. “I! You’re crazy! There isn’t a more devoted wife and mother in the world. That’s the trouble. I love them too much.”

“Well, then,” grimly, “stop it for a change. That’s half Eugene’s nervousness–your fussing over him. He’s eighteen. Give him a chance. You’re weakening him. And stop dinning that society stuff into Adele’s ears. She’s got brains, that child. Why, just yesterday, in the workroom, she got hold of some satin and a shape and turned out a little turban that Angie Hatton—-“

“Do you mean to tell me that Angie Hatton saw my Adele working in your shop! Now, look here, Sophy. You’re earning your living, and it’s to your credit. You’re my sister. But I won’t have Adele associated in the minds of my friends with your hat store, understand? I won’t have it. That isn’t what I sent her away to an expensive school for. To have her come back and sit around a millinery workshop with a lot of little, cheap, shoddy sewing girls! Now, understand, I won’t have it! You don’t know what it is to be a mother. You don’t know what it is to have suffered. If you had brought two children into the world—-“