On the narrow steps, she gave way to a girl--not much older than herself in years--but very old as if she lived in a harder world than Lois, a world that wore one more away, that sapped the flower of cheeks and the laughter of eyes and parched the bloom of a girl’s hair. She noticed all this, stepping aside so that the girl might pass. She moved, apologetic, fearful, strangely ashamed. She saw the hard paper cylinders serving this girl as sleeves. In the lifeless golden hair she saw that a pencil was stuck. She felt guilt. But Lois had no power to plumb her impulse: it went. She was in her father’s private office and a new pride swiftly scurried away the mist of that strange encounter. Here--she felt it at once--here her father was master! A new light by which to see him. At home her mother ruled him. Muriel flouted him when he obtruded upon the most idle of her ways. He seemed glad, as of a privilege, to hold Lois on his knees, after Sunday breakfast, and spoil her with promises of trinkets, bribing for kisses and smiles. Also, at home he was weary, a depleted man. He had little ways of confessing his weakness and although Lois was not so analytic as to gauge them consciously, their accumulation brought its impress to her mind. He lost his temper. He bore treading on, was silent, then suddenly he lost his temper. He cried aloud about his power, that his will was final: _he_ was the head of the household: not Muriel, not Muriel--_he_. Lois felt the whisper against these over-protestations. Here was a party to which a not too well established youth had invited Muriel. The youth was calling for her in a carriage himself had hired. “You aren’t going in that carriage,” said Mr. Deane. Muriel was struck silent. She retreated before the sudden quiet of his authority. Slowly gathering herself, she matched him. “And why not, please?” Her voice was compressed in her throat. “Why not?” her father burst forth. “Because I don’t want you to. I don’t allow any young whippersnapper who wants, to take my daughter in a hired carriage. We have a carriage of our own, haven’t we? Isn’t it good enough? Send your young man a message to countermand his rig and you may go.” Muriel stood there, swaying a bit, lowering on him. “I’ll do no such thing. Make him think I’m a child who cant go out in any carriage but my Papa’s? The whole thing is too silly----” “Very well. Then stay at home.” Muriel broke into tears. “I won’t,” she cried. “I’ll go. I never heard of such a thing. It’s stupid. What have you got all of a sudden against Alfred? Why should you ask me to insult him so? If he prefers to order his own cab....” She stood there and wept and moved not at all, save for the stamping of her feet. Her father paced the room, far less contained. “I have said what I meant.” Stopping short, he joined the issue. “And you will obey. So long as you are in my house, I am to be obeyed, do you hear? You ain’t married yet.”