  The evening mail brought from Mrs. Peele to her son a note which he read with a rumbling accompaniment, then tossed to Patience. “Do you intend to permit your wife to disgrace your family?” it read. “If I had my way that abominable paper, the ‘Day,’ should never enter this house—nor any other paper that dealt in personalities. I literally writhe every time I see my name—your father’s honoured name—in the society columns. You may, then, perhaps, imagine my feelings when your father handed me the ‘Day’ this morning with his finger on that outrageous column. He was speechless with wrath, and will personally call Mr. Field to account. I am in bed with a violent headache, in consequence, and dictating this letter to Honora. But although I deeply feel for you, my beloved son, I must insist that you assert your authority with your wrong-headed wife and command her to refrain from disgracing this family. I don’t wish to reproach you, but I cannot help saying that it is always a dangerous experiment to marry beneath one. This girl is not one of us, she never can be; for, not to mention that we know nothing whatever of her family, she comes from that dreadful savage new Western country. In spite of the fact that she has been clever enough to superficially adapt herself to our ways, I always knew that she would break out somewhere—I always said so to Honora. But I don’t wish to add to your own sorrow. I know how you, with all your proud Peele reserve, must feel. Only, my son, use your authority in the future.” Patience finished this letter with a disagreeable lowering of the brows. She made no comment, however, but opened a book and refused to converse with her husband. On Sunday morning she found three columns on the Woman’s Page of the “Day” devoted to her beauty, her intellect, her gowns, and her opinions. It was embellished with a photograph of Peele Manor and a sketch of herself, which Miss Merrien had evidently made from memory. When Beverly came down she handed the newspaper to him at once, to read the story with the raw temper of early morning. She hoped that Mrs. Peele would read it in similar conditions. After he had gone through the headlines he let the newspaper fall to the floor, and stared at her with a face so livid that for a moment she felt as if looking upon the risen dead. Then gradually it blackened, only the nostrils remaining white. “So you deliberately defy me?” he articulated. “Yes,” she said, watching him narrowly. She thought that he might strike her. “You did it on purpose to drive me crazy?” “I had no object whatever, except that it pleased me to be interviewed. Understand at once that I shall do exactly as I please in all things. This is not the country for petty household tyrants. I don’t doubt there are many men in this world whom I should be glad to treat with deference and respect if I happened to be married to one of them; but with men like you there is only one course to take. I have asked you to let me live abroad. If you consent to this, it may save you a great deal of trouble in the future; for, I repeat, I shall in all things do exactly as I choose.” “We’ll see whether you will or not,” he roared. “You’ll do as I say, or I’ll lock you up.” “Oh, you will not lock me up. You are way behind your times, Beverly. There is no law in the United States to compel me to obey you.” “I’ll stop your allowance. You’ll never get another cent from me.” “That has nothing whatever to do with it. Now, I ask you for the last time, Will you let me travel?” “No!” he shouted, and he rushed from the room.
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