“Because if it is,” said Mrs. Below silkily, “if it is, we shall have to have an understanding.” She bridled menacingly. “I was not bred to rudeness. Selfishness I can put up with—fortunately for me: I can suffer a fool—I’ve done it day and night for seven years: but rudeness is an assault, and that I will not endure.” “I assure you, Marion——” “D’you mind holding your tongue?” The words bit at the air, and Peregrine winced. “As I say, I was not bred to rudeness. My father was old-fashioned enough to treat my mother with courtesy, if not respect. I’m not such a fool as to expect those emotions from you because my father was a gentleman, but if you could manage to suppress your coarser instincts at least in my presence, I should be grateful. Personally, I see nothing heinous in my wish to attend a dance. Life’s flat enough, Heaven knows. Besides, it’s been done before. That is what dances are for—Peregrine. I confess I did not expect my suggestion to be cordially received. That would have been unreasonably optimistic. It hasn’t taken me seven years to discover that social intercourse doesn’t appeal to you. But it never occurred to me that my mere expression of a very natural desire would be the signal for an outburst of abuse. But there again—I never expect contumely. I’ve had it and stood it for seven years, and I suppose most women would have become case-hardened. But I’m different. I cannot realize that the old order is changed, that you cannot spell the word ‘chivalry,’ that to you women are chattels whose only office is to reflect the glorious will of man. What if our passages are booked? I suppose they can be cancelled.” “Certainly, dear,” said Peregrine. “I’ll—I’ll do it this morning.” “No, you won’t,” said his wife. “You’ll do it this afternoon. This morning we’re playing golf. Which reminds me—have you ordered a car?” “I will if you like,” said Peregrine, rising. “I shouldn’t think it was necess——” “Why argue?” said Mrs. Below grimly. “Why not be big-minded enough to admit your mistake? If there is one thing I despise more than another, it is a man or woman who deliberately sticks to their point when they know that they’re wrong. And why should I run the risk of having to walk because you won’t take the trouble to order a car? Of course it’s the old thing—lack of consideration. First, every possible obstacle is put in the way of my going to a dance just because you don’t want the bother of writing a note. Then my convenience is to be jeopardized. . . .” She raised her eyes to heaven and let the sentence go. “You ought to have known my father,” she continued piously. “With him my mother came first _always_. It never occurred to him to argue. She only had to . . .” She stopped there to peer violently at the floor. “What have you got on your feet?” “My—buckskin shoes, dear,” said Peregrine. “Rubber-soled?” “Yes.”