The scene was more violent than usually happened between aunt and niece, as it was the habit of Alice to bear in silence whatever rudeness it pleased Miss Wentstile to inflict. Not that the spinster was accustomed to be unkind to the girl. So long as there was no opposition to her will, Miss Wentstile was in her brusque way generous and not ill-natured. Now that her temper was tried to the extreme, her worst side made itself evident; and Alice was wise in attempting to escape. She rose from the place where she had been sewing, and prepared to leave the room. "Go to your room by all means," the spinster said bitterly, regarding her with looks of marked disfavor. "All I have to say is this: if I do marry the Count, and you find yourself without a home, you'll have nobody but yourself to thank for it. I'm sure you've had your chance." Whether the antique heart of the spinster had cherished the design of attempting to glide into the place in the Count's life left vacant by the refusal of her niece is a fact known only to her attendant angels, if she had any. Certain it is that within twenty-four hours she had summoned that nobleman to her august presence. "Count," she said to him, "I can't express to you how distressed I am that my niece has put such a slight on you. She is absolutely determined not to marry." The Count as usual shrugged his shoulders, and remarked in mangled English that in America there was no authority; and that in his country the girl would not have been asked whether she was determined to marry or not. Her determination would have made no difference. "That is the way it should be here," Miss Wentstile observed with feeling; "but it isn't. The young people are brought up to have their own way, no matter what their elders wish." "Then she weell not to marry wid me?" he asked. "No, there's no hope of it. She is as obstinate as a rock." There was a brief interval of silence in which the Count looked at Miss Wentstile and Miss Wentstile looked at the floor. "Count Shimbowski," she said at last, raising her eyes, "of course it doesn't make much difference to you who it is you marry if you get the money." He gave a smile half of deprecation, and spread out his hands. "One Shimbowski for de _dot_ marries," he acknowledged, "but eet ees not wid all weemeens. Dat ees not honor." "Oh, of course I mean if your wife was a lady." "Eet ees for de _dot_ only one Shimbowski would wid all Amereecans marry," he returned with simple pride. Miss Wentstile regarded him with a questioning look. "I am older than my niece," she went on, "but my _dot_ would be half a million."