"I've been doing a good deal of thinking--thinking about us--these last few days--since I inflicted that scratch on you," said he. "Among other things, I've concluded you know as little about what constitutes a real gentleman as I do; also, that you have no idea what it is in you that makes you a lady--so far as you are one." She glanced at him in fright, and that expression of hers betrayed the fundamental weakness in her--the weakness that underlies all character based upon the achievements of others, not upon one's own. Margaret was three generations away from self-reliance. Craig's speech sounded like a deliberate insult, deliberate attempt to precipitate a quarrel, an estrangement. There had been nothing in her training to prepare her for such a rude, courage-testing event as that. "Do you remember--it was the day we married--the talk we had about my relatives?" She colored, was painfully embarrassed, strove in vain to conceal it. "About your relatives?" she said inquiringly. He made an impatient gesture. "I know you remember. Well, if I had been a gentleman, or had known what gentleman meant, I'd never have said--or, rather, looked what I did then. If you had known what a gentleman is, if you had been a lady, you'd have been unable to go on with a man who had shown himself such a blackguard." "You are unjust to us both," she eagerly interrupted. "Joshua--you--" "Don't try to excuse me--or yourself," said he peremptorily. "Now, you thought what I showed that day--my being ashamed of honester, straighter--more American--people than you or I will ever be--you thought that was the real me. Thank God, it wasn't. But"--he pointed a fascinating forefinger at her--"it was the me I'd be if you had your way." She could not meet his eyes. "I see you understand," said he earnestly. "That's a good sign." "Yes, I do understand," said she. Her voice was low and her head was still hanging. "I'm glad you've said this. I--I respect you for it." "Don't fret about me," said he curtly. "Fret about your own melancholy case. What do your impulses of decent feeling amount to, anyway? An inch below the surface you're all for the other sort of thing--the cheap and nasty. If you could choose this minute you'd take the poorest of those drawing-room marionettes before the finest real man, if he didn't know how to wear his clothes or had trouble with his grammar." She felt that there was more than a grain of truth in this; at any rate, denial would be useless, as his tone was the tone of settled conviction. "We've made a false start," proceeded he. He rose, lighted a cigarette. "We're going to start all over again. I'll tell you what I'm going to do about it in a day or two."