This could be taken in two ways, but I preferred to make it applicable to her rather than to myself. I said, “Our acquaintance has been short.” “But we know all about the stock,” she corrected. “I’m proud of the family,” I acknowledged; “but don’t let’s be Ibsenish.” “I knew you didn’t like him,” said Kate, confidentially. “I don’t either.” “He’s rather rough on us old families,” I intimated. “Sour grapes,” explained Kate. “The wouldn’t-because-I-can’t-be people always stir up the sediments of my Cortelyou temper.” “I thought you liked the family temper,” I suggested. “In anybody but myself,” she told me. “With others it’s really a great help. Now, with my brothers, I know just how far I can go safely, and it’s easy to manage them.” “I suppose that accounts for the ease with which you manage me.” She laughed, and replied demurely, “I think we are both on our good behaviour.” “I’m afraid our respective and respected parents won’t think so.” This made her look serious, and I wondered if her father could be brute enough ever to lose that awful temper of his at such a charming daughter. The thought almost made me lose mine. “They can’t blame you,” I assured her. “Your father—” “Is sure that everything I do is right,” she interjected, “but Mrs. Pellew?” “We will not make Mrs. Pellew—” Kate saw I was going to use her own speech, and she interrupted in turn. “Of course you are over twenty-one,” she continued, “but the Cortelyou women always have their way. I hope she won’t be very bad to you.” She certainly had paid me off, and to boot, for my earlier speech. And the nasty thing about it was that any attempt to answer her would look as if I felt there was truth in her speech, which was really ridiculous. Though I live with my mother, my friends know who is the real master of the house. “Any one living with a Cortelyou woman must confess her superiority,” I responded, bowing deferentially. “Yes,” she said, nodding her head knowingly. “People say that she spoils you. Now I see how you compass it.” “We have only exchanged Ibsen for Mrs. Grundy,” I complained. “‘Excelsior’ is a good rule,” announced Kate. “That’s what you’ll be doing in a moment,” said I, trying to look doleful, for we were eating the game course. “How well you act it!” replied Kate. “You ought to go on the stage. What a pity that you should waste your time on clubs and afternoon teas!” “Look here,” I protested, “I’ve done my best all through dinner, considering my Cortelyou temper, and now, just because it’s so nearly over that you don’t need me any longer is no reason for making such speeches. I don’t go to my club once a week, and I despise afternoon teas.” “That sampler has become positively threadbare,” retorted Kate. “I really think it must be worked in worsted, and hung up in all the New York clubs, like ‘God bless our home!’ and ‘Merry Christmas!’” “I much prefer hearts to clubs, for a steady trump,” I remarked. “You play billiards, I presume?”