“Not till you apologise to Lionel’s wife,” he said, weakly. “Oh, give her a cheque,” said Julie, “that’s the kind of apology _she_ wants. Come on!” She went out of the house like a whirlwind, with her long veil floating behind her, and sprang into the car to wait for her husband, looking about at the citizens rocking on their porches with her brilliant, insolent eyes. “Oh, come on!” she called out to Horace, who was lingering in an effort to propitiate his hosts. “Let’s get out of this damned hole!” She startled and shocked the entire select neighbourhood, as she had intended. And produced the desired effect of bringing Horace out at once. They spun away, driven by a chauffeur who couldn’t keep a grin from his face, leaving behind them astonishment, wrath and excitement. II It was quite natural that Minnie should cry. Lionel admired her for not crying much more. She dried her eyes, smiled ruefully, and got up. “I must get your dinner ready, darling,” she said. “No hurry. Rest a bit, you poor girl! By Jove! That was a beastly scene! No wonder you’re upset.” “I’m not upset now,” she said, quietly. “A person like that couldn’t affect me very much.” And with a splendid Defoe grandeur, she went about her work. As had her grandmother and Frankie, so did Lionel admire her housekeeping. Because she was always busy and always wearing an apron, he believed that she must accomplish an incredible amount of work. There was a great deal of dust about, the meals were always late and often burned, but that all went to prove what a lot there was to be done. She was so hurried, so anxious, always thinking of his comfort. And nothing but his comfort. Never of his soul, his spirit. She got the dinner on the table and sat down opposite, watching with a frown to see that he ate enough. She still wore her apron, and her hair was very untidy, but he was used to that now. Anyway he felt that he must never look upon Minnie with physical eyes, he was to treasure her only for her sublime moral worth, her self-sacrifice, her stern sense of duty, her noble womanhood. “Eat the pudding, dear,” she urged. “It’s all made of milk. It will do you good.” He smiled at her and obeyed. After dinner she made him sit in his comfortable chair on the porch with a cigar, while she washed the dishes. She would never let him help her. Pale and exhausted, doing everything in the most irrational way, it was quite nine o’clock before she could join him. At last she came out on the porch and sat down near him, creaking back and forth in her particular rocking-chair. Out of the darkness her voice came suddenly and amazingly. “I suppose we’ll have to patch it up.” “What?” he asked, puzzled, thinking of possible leaks in roof or ceiling. “This quarrel. With your sister-in-law.” “I shouldn’t call it a ‘quarrel’” he said. “She insulted you, grossly. I don’t see how or why it should be ‘patched up.’”