After breakfast, and before Arthur Peachey’s departure for business, there had been a scene of violent quarrel between him and his wife. It took place in the bed-room, where, as usual save on Sunday morning, Ada consumed her strong tea and heavily buttered toast; the state of her health--she had frequent ailments, more or less genuine, such as afflict the indolent and brainless type of woman--made it necessary for her to repose till a late hour. Peachey did not often lose self-control, though sorely tried; the one occasion that unchained his wrath was when Ada’s heedlessness or ill-temper affected the well-being of his child. This morning it had been announced to him that the nurse-girl, Emma, could no longer be tolerated; she was making herself offensive to her mistress, had spoken insolently, disobeyed orders, and worst of all, defended herself by alleging orders from Mr. Peachey. Hence the outbreak of strife, signalled by furious shrill voices, audible to Beatrice and Fanny as they sat in the room beneath. Ada came down at half-past ten, and found Beatrice writing letters. She announced what any who did not know her would have taken for a final resolve. ‘I’m going--I won’t put up with that beast any longer. I shall go and live at Brighton.’ Her sister paid not the slightest heed; she was intent upon a business letter of much moment. ‘Do you hear what I say? I’m going by the first train this afternoon.’ ‘All right,’ remarked Beatrice placidly. ‘Don’t interrupt me just now. The result of this was fury directed against Beatrice, who found herself accused of every domestic vice compatible with her position. She was a sordid creature, living at other people’s expense,--a selfish, scheming, envious wretch-- ‘If I were your husband,’ remarked the other without looking up, ‘I should long since have turned you into the street--if I hadn’t broken your neck first.’ Exercise in quarrel only made Ada’s voice the clearer and more shrill. It rose now to the highest points of a not inconsiderable compass. But Beatrice continued to write, and by resolute silence put a limit to her sister’s railing. A pause had just come about, when the door was thrown open, and in rushed Fanny, hatted and gloved from a walk. ‘He’s dead!’ she said excitedly. ‘He’s dead!’ Beatrice turned with a look of interest. ‘Who? Mr. Lord?’ ‘Yes. The blinds are all down. He must have died in the night.’ Her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled, as though she had brought the most exhilarating news. ‘What do I care?’ said Mrs. Peachey, to whom her sister had addressed the last remark. ‘Just as much as I care about your affairs, no doubt,’ returned Fanny, with genial frankness. ‘Don’t be in too great a hurry,’ remarked Beatrice, who showed the calculating wrinkle at the corner of her eye. ‘Because he’s dead, that doesn’t say that your masher comes in for money.’ ‘Who’ll get it, then?’ ‘There may be nothing worth speaking of to get, for all we know.’