“They’re my children. I’ll do just as I think best about them. I’ve got on very well without consulting you so far, and I shan’t begin now.” “Chris!” Frances appealed to Mr. Petersen, “Won’t you say something? You know she’s not fit to bring up children.” “It takes an old maid to do that,” said Minnie. That roused Mr. Petersen. “Minnie,” he began, “it would be better--if you would consent....” “I won’t consent to anything! I want my children, and I _will_ have them. I’m going to take them now.” “But--I have something to say about it,” he protested. “You haven’t! Sandra’s not yours, and little Robert’s _mine_. I asked a lawyer. You’re not my husband. You haven’t any claim on him.” Frances rose. “Minnie,” she said, “listen to me!” She looked like the goddess Athene, so handsome, so stern, so just. “You must have _some_ sort of conscience--_some_ standard--something I can appeal to.... You’ve wronged me, you’ve wronged Mr. Petersen, in the cruelest way. You’ve brought shame and suffering on innocent people. You’ve thought only of yourself and your own desires, and had no mercy on anyone who stood in your way. And now you want to do something still worse. Just for your own selfish gratification, you want to take those poor little children away from people who are able and willing to do everything for them--honourable and decent people----” “I suppose you mean yourself,” said Minnie, “I suppose you and Chris intended to start housekeeping with _my_ children. Well, you can’t!” “If you love them, Minnie, you can’t drag them into poverty and----” “Oh, love, love, love!” cried Minnie impatiently. “What do you know about loving, anyway? When I love people, I fight for them. I’d die for them.... Or I’d murder. I’d do _anything_. I wouldn’t stop to reason and plan like you do. You couldn’t keep my babies away from me if you had an army of soldiers to help you.” And she pushed by her sister and went upstairs. They heard a sudden wild little shout. “Oh, _Mummy_!” from Sandra. Then a number of sounds, Minnie walking about, opening bureau drawers, the creak of a rocking chair. It tortured Mr. Petersen, brought back old days. He felt that if he went up now he would see Minnie in her horrible grey wrapper, with the baby in her arms, rocking away, just in the same way, with the gas turned low and Sandra sitting up in her crib. And then, when the baby was asleep, Minnie would come down, exhausted, sighing, but smiling too, and trail out into the kitchen, to look in the ice chest for something to eat. And then to sit on the arm of his chair and gossip.... He could not repress a groan. “Oh, Minnie!” he whispered. Frances looked at him with a pity not untinged with contempt. She knew he wasn’t thinking of the children at all. “Chris!” she said, in a low voice. “Yes?” “_Don’t_ tell her--that we’re married!” He nodded assent. They remained at the table, in silence. There was nothing to do, nothing to say, but to wait for Minnie’s next move.