Mrs. Lauderdale went slowly upstairs, thinking over what she should say, as she climbed from one story to another. At the door she knocked softly, and Katharine’s voice bade her enter.

Katharine was standing at the window, looking out, and did not turn round as her mother entered. The evening light was on the houses opposite, and the glow was gently sinking into the darker street. Katharine watched the horse-cars go by, and listened mechanically to the jingle of the bells, hardly conscious of either.

“What is it?” she asked, as she heard the door close.

Her voice had that peculiar reedy sound which comes of speaking through the closed teeth by the lips only. It seems to mean that the speaker is on the defensive and not to be trifled with.

“Your father—Katharine—he’s so angry! He wanted me to speak to you.”

“Oh—it’s you, mother?” The girl’s tone changed a very little, and she turned and came forward. “Well—I’m sorry,” she said, after a short pause. “It can’t be helped, I suppose.”

Mrs. Lauderdale sat down in the one small arm-chair, by the toilet-table, and clasped her hands over her knee, leaning back, and looking up rather wistfully at Katharine.

“I think—in a way—it can be helped,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, in a conciliatory manner. “If you would go downstairs now, and just say quietly that you’re sorry, you know. Just as you said it now. I’m sure he’d be willing to accept that as an apology.”

“Apology?” Katharine laughed bitterly. “I—make an apology to him? No, mother—I won’t.”

“You ought to—really,” objected Mrs. Lauderdale, earnestly. “Why, my dear child! Have you any idea of what you’ve been saying downstairs? Some of the things you said were dreadful.”

“They were all true, and he knows it,” answered Katharine, stubbornly.

She leaned against the chest of drawers, and looked down into her mother’s upturned face.

“Oh, no! they weren’t all true, dear,” protested the latter. “You exaggerated very much. It’s quite possible that your father may have saved something in all these years—he’s so careful! But as for having a million, as you said—”

“But, dear mother—there isn’t a doubt of it! I didn’t promise uncle Robert that I wouldn’t tell that—”

“What? Did uncle Robert tell you?”

“Yes! Of course! Did you suppose I was inventing?”

“Well—not exactly. But I thought you might have heard some gossip—or something Jack Ralston said—”

“Not at all. Uncle Robert told me that he knew it to be a positive fact—a million, at least, he said. And he’s quite as truthful as papa—”

“More so,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, absently; “I mean,” she added, very quickly, with a frightened look, for she had not realized what she was saying—“I mean—quite as truthful. They’re both perfectly truthful—”

“Yes,” answered Katharine in a doubtful tone, and smiling in spite of herself. “Not but that, if it came to believing, you know, I’d believe uncle Robert sooner than papa—”

“Hush, child—don’t!”

Katharine said nothing, but still leaned back, resting both elbows on the high chest of drawers on each side behind her, and looking down thoughtfully at the points of her shoes. Mrs. Lauderdale was silent, too, for several seconds.

“Well?” Katharine uttered the convenient word interrogatively, without looking up.

“Well—yes,” responded Mrs. Lauderdale. “I was going to say that—” She hesitated. “My dear,” she continued, at last, “you’ll have to say something to your father, after all this.”

“Something like what I’ve said already?” asked Katharine, raising her black eyebrows and glancing at her mother.

“No, no! I’m serious, my dear.”

“So am I—very. You began to talk of an apology. It’s quite useless, mother—I can’t and I won’t apologize.”

“But, Katharine, darling—he says he won’t see you unless you do—he’s dreadfully angry still!”

“Oh—he won’t see me? What does that mean? That I’m to stay in my room?” She laughed a little.

“He’s in earnest about it,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. “That’s what he said—he—I don’t like to say it—but I must, I suppose. That’s just it. He means you to stay in your room whenever he’s in the house.”

“How childish!” exclaimed Katharine, scornfully. “What do I care? I don’t want to see him particularly. But, just for curiosity—if he happens to meet me on the stairs, for instance, what will he do? Throw things at me? Box my ears? He’s quite capable of it—as you saw just now—”

“Please don’t talk like that, dear,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. “He was terribly angry—and you were saying the most dreadful things—he only meant to stop you from speaking.”

“He hurt my mouth, and he hurt my arm—there’ll be black and blue marks here to-morrow, I’m sure, by the way it feels.” She laid her left hand on her right forearm at the point where her father had seized it. “That’s rather like violence, you know, mother.”

Katharine turned perceptibly paler as she spoke of it. Mrs. Lauderdale was pained at the recollection, and looked away from her, clasping her hands a little more tightly over her knee.

“Did he ever touch you in that way, mother?” asked the young girl, slowly.

“Me?” cried Mrs. Lauderdale. “Oh—child! How can you think of such a thing! No, indeed! Fancy!”

“Well—I’m just as sensitive as you are,” answered Katharine. “Put yourself in my place.”

The unexpected answer silenced the elder woman.

“I think it’s his place to apologize to me—and very humbly,” added Katharine. “It was a cowardly piece of violence to a woman. I’m willing to believe—for the honour of the family, and men generally—that he didn’t mean to strike, exactly. But it felt very much like it, and I told him so. I’ll tell him so again, if he mentions the thing.”

Mrs. Lauderdale was in great difficulties. Her husband and her daughter were both stronger than she, they had no intention of making up their quarrel, and yet, by her position, she was forced to act as intermediary. It was not easy. Her husband dominated her by his strong personality. Katharine had the better of her in argument. She turned away a little, in thought, resting one elbow on the toilet-table beside her, and covering her eyes with her hand for a moment. The beautiful, tired features were pale and drawn.

“It’s very hard for me,” she said, wearily. “You’re both partly wrong and partly right.”

“I think I’m altogether right,” said Katharine.

“I know—so does he. But you’re not—either of you—nor I, either, for that matter. Oh, dear! I wish I knew what to do!”

“There’s nothing to be done, I’m afraid,” answered the young girl, more gently, for she was somewhat pacified by her mother’s owning a share in the blame. “Not that I’m going to make a fuss about it, if he doesn’t. I’m not that kind. I won’t come down to dinner to-night, because it would be unpleasant for everybody. As for to-morrow—we’ll see what happens. The idea of shutting me up in my room so long as he’s in the house, because the sight of me is disagreeable to him, it’s silly—it’s perfectly childish! Just like an angry man! I’m not sure that I should mind it very much, so far as not seeing him’s concerned. I don’t want to see him, any more than he wants to see me. But it’s the principle of the thing that sticks in my throat. It’s as though he had the right to treat me like a small child, to be sent to bed in a dark room at discretion, until I change my mind. It’s the tyranny of the thing, the arrogance of it—and when I’m altogether right, as you both know.”

“No—not altogether,” objected Mrs. Lauderdale.

“I won’t go over it again, mother. I’ll sum it up in these words. He’s rich, and he’s told us that he was poor, and he’s stood looking on and letting you work to give us small luxuries that amount to necessities. He’s wilfully calumniated Jack for months. He’s wilfully misled Archie Wingfield—”

“My dear—about that—he assures me that he only said you might ultimately accept him—”

“Well—he knew that I mightn’t, and he had no business to say I might,” interrupted Katharine, decidedly. “Besides, I can hear just his tone of voice, and his way of slurring over the ‘might’ till Mr. Wingfield felt it was ‘may’—oh, it’s abominable! As for his pestering me with questions about uncle Robert’s will, it’s natural enough, considering how he loves money, as a cat loves cream. Oh, I know! You’re going to say it’s disrespectful to say such things. Perhaps it is—I don’t know—he seems to lap it up—with that smile of his—and it disappears, and we have to live on the drops. No—I don’t feel respectful. Why should I? I’ve respected him for nineteen years, and I can’t respect him any longer. It’s over, once and for all. When a man deliberately sets to work to destroy his daughter’s chances of being happy—oh, well! It isn’t only that. It’s the whole thing, the meanness, the miserliness, the Sunday-go-to-meeting-and-sit-up-straight sort of virtuous superiority outside—and all this other inside. It’s revolting. It’s upset all my ideas. I don’t feel as though I could ever believe in anything again. I don’t mean to shock you, mother, but I can’t help saying it, just now.”

“It’s dreadful!” Mrs. Lauderdale spoke in a low voice and earnestly.

Katharine was silent for a few moments, and looked out of the window. It was almost dark by this time.

“You know, mother,” she said, suddenly, “I used to admire papa—very much, in a certain way. I don’t think you ever quite realized that. Of course I’ve been brought up in his church, though I’ve much more sympathy with yours. It always seems to me that his is a man’s religion, and yours is a woman’s. But then—Mr. Griggs says the world is a woman, in a sort of way, so yours ought to be the religion of the world. Never mind—I don’t know enough to talk about these things. What I mean is this. I used to admire papa’s uncompromising way of looking at life, and the way I thought he’d tell the truth and shame the devil at any price, and his cold, unreasoning, settled certainty about heaven and hell—and the way I thought that he took his flinty goodness down town with him, and did right, when one knows that ever so many business men don’t. It all seemed so strong, and cool, and manly. I couldn’t help admiring it. And I believed that he was poor, and that although he wouldn’t say much, he’d fight for us, and die for us, if necessary. And then—he’s handsome, too, and straight, and steely, and formal. I’ve always liked a little formality. Do you see what I mean?”

“Of course,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, thoughtfully, and nodding her head with a far-away look in her eyes.

Katharine had enumerated the very qualities that had once appealed so strongly to her mother.

“Well—” Katharine paused a second. “It’s all a sham. That’s all.”

Mrs. Lauderdale started at the abrupt, rough words.

“Oh, Katharine, dear, don’t say that!”

“It’s true. It’s broken to pieces. It began to crack just before Charlotte was married. It’s all broken to bits. I can see the inside of it, and it’s not what I thought. There’s only one idea, and that’s money. It would need a miracle to make me admire him again. It’s broken to atoms, and what’s so strange is, that it’s taken everything with it in the last few months—and it’s taken the last bit to-day. It’s all gone. I can’t help it. It’s dreadful—but it’s a sort of confession, like your confessions. I don’t believe in God any more.”

“My child, my child!”

Mrs. Lauderdale looked up at her with scared eyes and rising hands, which sought Katharine’s, found them, and gripped them in a frightened way. The devout woman, good at heart with her one big fault, felt as though the world were quaking under her feet as she heard the last words. Not that Katharine spoke them lightly, for she was in earnest, and the declaration of unbelief was more solemn from its strangeness than almost any confession of rigid faith could have been.

“Yes, mother—I know—we won’t talk about it. I only want you to understand me—we’ve been so much together in our lives.”

She spoke sadly now.

“And we shall be, dear, I hope,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale.

“I don’t know—perhaps. I don’t believe we shall ever be just as we used to be. You’re not the same—nor am I, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes we are—in our hearts. But, Katharine, darling—what you said just now—if you knew how it hurts me—”

“It’s not your fault, mother. If anybody’s to blame, it’s papa, and I think he is. Oh, no! You’re different. After all, we’re only a pair of women, you and I. We can quarrel and make up, and nobody will be hurt in the end. We’re not each other’s ideals—not that papa was mine, or anything like it. But you naturally believe in a thing more when a strong man stands up and asserts it and fights for it, than if it turns out that he only says that he believes in it, out of prejudice and family tradition and a sort of impression that after all he may go to the wrong place if he doesn’t. He’s always talking about setting an example—it seems to me that the example lies in the effect of the thing upon the person one’s to imitate. If this is the effect of religion on him, I don’t want it. I’d rather talk to Teddy Van De Water, who chatters about Darwin and Spencer without knowing anything particular about them, and sticks his glass in his eye and makes bad jokes about the future state, but who’d burn his hand to the wrist rather than do anything he thought mean. Men have done that sort of thing before now—they’re not the men who talk about God over the soup, and try to sell their daughters at dessert!”

“Katharine—” Mrs. Lauderdale could not find words.

“I know—but papa’s not here—and then, I don’t mean to talk about it any longer. You’ve come up from him, I suppose, mother, to say that he doesn’t want to see me. Very well. I don’t want to see him. But how long is this state of things to last? I won’t apologize, and I suppose he won’t give in. It may go on for months, then. Supposing I refuse to be imprisoned in this way, is he going to lock me in and take the key with him? What’s he going to do? I want to know what to expect.”

“My dear, I don’t know—he only said that. Just what I told you.”

“Because if it’s going to be a siege, I’ll go away,” said Katharine, calmly.

“I proposed that you should go to Washington and spend a fortnight with Charlotte. He wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Yes—but if I just go without asking his leave? What will happen? What do you think? Girls often go alone, and it’s only five hours by the half-past eleven train that Charlotte always takes. She’d be glad to have me, too.”

“Your father would be quite capable of going and bringing you back—on Sunday.”

“On Sunday!” Katharine laughed hardly. “How you know him! He wouldn’t lose a day at his office, to save you or me from drowning. That’s what he calls duty. Yes—perhaps he’d come, as you say. Then we should have an opportunity of fighting it out on the way back. Five hours, side by side—but I suppose we should turn our chairs back to back and go to sleep or read. But he might not come, after all. Do you know? I should feel a sort of sense of security at the Slaybacks’. I like him, though Charlotte makes fun of him. There’s something real about him. I didn’t mean to go to Washington, though.”

“You couldn’t go to the Ralstons’,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale. “With Jack at home—people would talk.”

“If I went there, I should stay,” answered Katharine, with a coolness that startled her mother. “I should never come back at all. Perhaps I shall some day. Who knows? No—I thought I’d go and stop with uncle Robert. That would terrify papa. He’d suppose, in the first place, that I’d tell uncle Robert everything that’s happened, and then that uncle Robert would tell me a great deal more about his intentions with regard to the will. That would make papa anxious to be nice to me when I came home again, so as to get the secret out of me. I think it’s a very good plan; don’t you? Uncle Robert would be delighted. He’s all alone and not at all strong. The very last time I saw him, he begged me to come and stay a few days. I think I will. Fancy papa’s rage! He’d scarcely dare to come and get me there, I imagine.”

Mrs. Lauderdale did not answer at once. She saw the immense advantage Katharine would have over her father if she carried out the plan, and it seemed too great. Alexander would be almost at his daughter’s mercy. She could dictate her own terms of peace. Incensed as she was against him, she could easily use her influence against him with his uncle, who had a lonely old man’s fondness for the beautiful girl.

“Of course you could go—I couldn’t prevent you,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, rather helplessly.

“Of course I could. I’ve only to walk there. Uncle Robert will send for my things.”

“I hope you won’t, dear. It wouldn’t make it easier for me—he’ll think it’s been my fault, you know—and then—”

Katharine looked at her mother in silence for a moment, and pitied her too much, even after what had passed between them, to leave her to Alexander’s temper.

“I won’t go yet,” said Katharine. “I won’t go unless he’s perfectly intractable. Go and tell him that it’s all right, mother. I’ll submit quietly and stay in my room as long as he’s in the house—quite as much for my own sake as for his, you can tell him. If he asks about my apologizing, tell him that I won’t, and that I expect an apology from him. It can’t last forever. One of us will have to give in, at the end—but I won’t. You can put it all as mildly as you like, only don’t give him any impression that I’m submitting to him morally, even if I’m willing to keep out of his way.”

“Couldn’t you say something a little nicer than that, dear?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale, pleadingly, for she anticipated more trouble. “Couldn’t you say that you’d let by-gones be by-gones—or something of that sort?”

“It wouldn’t be true. These are not by-gones. They’re present things. The nice by-gones will never come back.”

Mrs. Lauderdale rose slowly to the height of her still graceful figure, and stood before her daughter for a moment. In the emotion of the past hour she had forgotten for a time her envy of the girl’s blossoming beauty. For a moment she was impelled to throw her arms round Katharine’s neck in the old way, and kiss her, and try to make things again what they had been. But something hard in the young grey eyes stopped her. She felt that she herself was not forgiven yet and might never be, altogether.

“Very well,” she said, quietly. “I’ll do my best.”

She turned and left the room, leaving Katharine still leaning back against the chest of drawers in the position she had not abandoned throughout the conversation.

When Katharine was alone, she stood up, turned round and pulled out the upper drawer. Amongst her gloves and handkerchiefs lay a photograph of John Ralston. She took it out and looked at the keen, dark face, with its set lips, its prominent bony temples, and its nervous lines that would be furrows too soon.

“You’re worth all the Lauderdales and the Wingfields put together!” she said, in a low voice.

She kissed the photograph, pressing it hard to her lips and closing her eyes.

“I wish you were here!” she said.

She looked at it again, and again kissed it. Then she put it back with an energetic movement that was almost rough, and shut the drawer. She sat down in the chair her mother had occupied, and gave herself up to thinking over all that had taken place.

Her instinct was to let John Ralston know as soon as possible what had happened, but she knew how foolish that would be. He would insist that the moment had come for declaring their marriage, and that she must go and live under his mother’s roof. But she felt that something must be done soon. If she was willing to submit to her father’s sentence, absurd as it was, she found a reason for doing so in her own disinclination to meet him. But the situation could not last. And yet, he was obstinate beyond ordinarily obstinate people, and it would be like him to insist upon banishing her for a week. In such things he had no sense of the ridiculous. Apart from the inconvenience and constant annoyance of being expected to keep out of his way, she was young enough to feel humiliated. It was very like a punishment—this order not to be seen when her father was in the house. She had no intention of disregarding it, however. To do so would have been to produce an open war of which the rumour would fill society. It was clear that her best course was to be patient as long as possible, and then quietly to go to uncle Robert’s house. The world would think it natural that she should pay him a visit. She had done so before.

Alexander Junior seemed to be satisfied with the answer his wife brought him. He felt that if he could make Katharine stay in her own room at his discretion, he was still master in his own house, and his injured dignity began to hold up its head again. The old philanthropist did not even ask after Katharine at dinner, though he was fond of her. She so often went out to dine alone with intimate friends, that it did not occur to him to remark upon her absence. But, as usual, when she was not there, the family meal was dull and silent. Alexander ate without speaking, and with the methodical, grimly appreciative appetite of very strong men. Mrs. Lauderdale was not hungry, and stared at the silver things on the table most of the time. The old gentleman bolted his food in the anticipation of tobacco, which tasted best after eating. He was a cheerful old soul when he was not dreaming, an optimist and a professed maker of happiness by the ton, so to say, for those who had been forgotten in the distribution. He had big hands, shiny at the knuckles and pink where a young man’s would be white, with horny, yellowish nails, and he was not very neat in his dress, though he had survived from the day when men used to wear dress coats and white ties in their offices all day. The Lauderdale tribe regarded him as a harmless member who had something wrong in his head, while his heart was almost too much in the right place. A certain amount of respect was shown him on account of his age, but though he was the oldest of them all, Robert the Rich was undisputedly the head of the family. It was generally believed, and, as has been seen, the belief was well founded, that he was not to have any large share of the money in case he survived his brother.

Early on the following morning Alexander Junior emerged from his dressing-room, equipped for the day. He wore the garments of civilization, but a very little power of imagination might have converted his dark grey trousers into greaves, his morning coat into a shirt of mail, and his stiff collar into a steel throat-piece. He had slept on his wrath, and had grown more obstinate with the grey of the morning. His voice was metallic and aggressive when he spoke to the serving-girl, demanding why his steak was overdone. When his wife appeared, he rose formally, as usual, and kissed her cheek with a little click, like the lock of a safe. He said little or nothing as he finished his breakfast, and then, without telling her what he meant to do, he went upstairs again and knocked at Katharine’s door.

“Katharine!” he called to her. “I wish to speak to you.”

“Well—” answered the young girl’s voice—“I’m not dressed yet. What is it?”

“How long shall you be?” enquired Alexander, bending his brows as he leaned against the panel to catch her answer.

“About three quarters of an hour—I should think—at least—judging from the state of my hair. It’s all tangled.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“No—I’ve not looked. Oh—my little clock has stopped. It’s a quarter past four by my little clock.”

“It’s nine o’clock,” said Alexander Junior, severely. “Three minutes to,” he added, looking at his watch.

“Well—I can’t help it now. It’s only—no—it’s sixteen minutes past four by my little clock.”

“Never mind your little clock. I must be going down town at once, and I wish to speak to you. I can’t wait three quarters of an hour.”

“No—of course not.”

“Well—can’t I come in? Aren’t you visible?”

“No. Certainly not. You can’t come in. I’m brushing—my hair. I always brush it—ten minutes.”

“Katharine—this is absurd!” cried Alexander, becoming exasperated. “Put on something and open the door.”

“No. I can’t just—now.” Her phrases were interrupted by the process of vigorous brushing. “Besides—you can talk through the door. I can hear—every word—you say. Can’t you hear me?”

“Yes, I can hear you. But I don’t wish to say what I have to say in the hearing of the whole house.”

“Oh!” The soft sound of the brushing ceased. “In that case I’d rather not hear it at all.”

“Katharine!” Alexander felt all his anger of the previous day rising again.

“Yes—what is it?” She seemed to have come nearer to the door.

“I told you. I wish to speak to you.”

“Yes—I know. But you can’t unless you’ll say it through the door.”

“Katharine! Don’t exasperate me!”

“I’m not trying to. I understood that you didn’t wish to see me for some days. If you’d sent me word, I should have been ready to receive you. As it is, I can’t.”

“You know perfectly well that you can, in ten minutes, if you please. I shall send your mother to you.”

“Oh—very well. I’ve not seen her this morning. But you’d better not wait till I’m dressed. It will take a long time.”

“Very well,” answered Alexander Junior, who had completely lost his temper by this time.

A moment later Katharine heard the sharp click of the lock, and the rattle as the key was withdrawn. She never used it, having a bolt on the inside.

“You are at liberty to take all day if you please,” said her father. “I have the key in my pocket. Good morning.”

Katharine’s lips parted in astonishment, as she turned her eyes towards the door, and she stood staring at it for a moment in speechless indignation, realizing that she was locked in for the day. Then, suddenly, her expression changed, and she laughed aloud. Alexander was already far down the stairs.

But presently she realized that the situation was serious, or, at all events, something more than annoying. She was to be shut up at least until after five o’clock in the afternoon, all alone, without food or drink, without the books she wanted, and without any one with whom to exchange a few words. Her face became grave as she finished dressing. She knew also that her father had lost his temper again, and she did not care to have all the servants know it.

She rang the bell, and waited by the door till she heard the maid’s footsteps outside.

“Ask my mother to come here a moment, Jane,” she said. “Say that it’s important.”

A few moments later Mrs. Lauderdale turned the handle of the lock.

“Is that you, mother?” asked Katharine.

“Yes. The door’s locked. I can’t open it.”

“This is serious,” said Katharine, speaking in a low voice, close to the panel. “Papa’s locked it and taken the key down town with him. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No—it’s impossible, child! You must have slipped the bolt inside.”

“But, mother, he said he meant to, and I heard him do it. He got angry because I wouldn’t let him in. I couldn’t then, for I wasn’t dressed, and Jane’s putting a new ribbon on my dressing-gown, so I haven’t even got that. But I didn’t want to. Never mind that—I’ll tell you by and by. The question is how I’m to get out! Unless he didn’t quite mean it, and has left the key on the table in the entry, with the latch-key. You might look.”

Mrs. Lauderdale went downstairs and searched for the key, but in vain. Katharine was locked in.