"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Robert Campbell. You have nearly broken your mother's heart by your disgraceful marriage. Can you not make Dora behave decently, and not turn the old home and our poor simple lives upside down, with all she requires?" "Isabel, do you think it was right to put people in the rooms I had spent so much time and money in furnishing?" "Quite right, seeing the people were our own kindred. It was not right to spend all the time and money you spent on those rooms for a stranger. You ought to be glad some of your own family got a little pleasure in them first of all." "They did not know how to use them. Both the Crawfords and Lairds are vulgar, common, and uneducated women. They know nothing of the decencies of life." "That may be true, but they are mother's kin, and blood is thicker than water. The Crawfords and Lairds are blood-kin; Dora is only water." "Theodora is my wife. I see that mother will no longer listen to me. Try and convince her that I am in earnest. My rooms are _my_ rooms, and no one comes into them unless they are invited by Theodora or myself. My wife's clothing and ornaments of all kinds belong to my wife, and not to the whole family. Write to Jean Crawford, and Bell Greenhill, and tell them to return all they have taken, or I shall make them do so." "I suppose, Robert, they have only borrowed whatever they have. They often borrow my rings and brooches and even my dresses." "Isabel, when people borrow even a ring, without the knowledge and consent of the owner, the law calls it stealing; and the person who has so borrowed it, the law calls a thief. I hope you understand me." He was leaving the room when his mother sobbed out: "Oh, Robert, Robert!" For a moment he hesitated; then he went to her side and asked: "What is it you wish, mother?" "I did not mean--to hurt you--I was brought up so different. I thought it would be all right--with you--that you, at least--would understand. I expected you knew--all about the marriage customs--you are Scotch. Oh, dear, dear! My poor heart--will break!" He touched her hand kindly and answered: "Well, do not cry, mother, I will say no more about it. Good-night." "Good (sob) night (sob), Robert!" But as soon as the door closed, the furious woman flung down her handkerchief in a rage, saying in low, passionate tones: "You see, girls! When you can't reason with a man, can't touch his brain, you may try crying about him, for perhaps he has something he calls a heart."