They paused for an instant before her. Mrs. Prymmer had a brief confused vision of a big, beautiful wax doll whose limpid eyes shone out of a mist of light hair, then her son flashed her a swift glance, and seeing that he could hope for no response, laid a hand on the shoulder of the vision and withdrew it. Mrs. Prymmer, brushing by the cabman who was staggering in under the weight of a trunk, marched solemnly into the hall, opened the door of the parlour, and, lighting the gas, sat down in an armchair of imposing proportions and awaited an explanation. Her son had conducted his companion to the dining-room. She heard a few low-spoken words, then his heavy step came through the hall, and, entering the room, he sat before her. "I don't know what some women would call this," she said, compressing her lips till there was nothing but a thin streak of red between them, "but I call it an insult." "It is not intended as an insult," he said. "Perhaps if you will wait till I explain--" "You can't explain away the fact that that is a woman," replied Mrs. Prymmer, pointing an accusing finger toward the next room. No, he could not. With all the words that he could utter, with all the stock of logic at his command, Justin Mercer could not disprove the fact that in the room beyond them was a young and uncommonly beautiful woman. "What do you mean by saying that she is a present for me?" asked his discomfited mother. "I have one girl now. I suppose this is some creature you have picked up on your travels." Justin Mercer was not a man given to unseemly mirth, yet at this disdainful remark he made a sound in his throat closely approaching a laugh. "Did you look at her, mother?" Mrs. Prymmer for a few instants forgot her vengeance in her curiosity. It was no servant, but a lady that had passed her in the doorway. The delicate face, with its clear-cut features and limpid eyes, was a refined and not a vulgar one. "Who is she?" she asked, peremptorily. "She is my wife," he said, quietly. "Your wife," gasped Mrs. Prymmer, and she half rose from her chair, then staggered into it again, and laid her hand against the high back for support, while all the furniture in the room, presided over by her son's sober face, whirled slowly by her in a distracted procession. "Shall I get you a glass of water?" he asked, sympathetically. She made a prohibitory gesture. This was only the reflex action of the blow struck when first she had seen the young girl accompanying him up the steps. She knew then that he had brought home a wife. Moistening her dry lips with her tongue so that she might compass the words, she articulated, "This is the fruit of disobedience."