What could Madam Bowker say? What could she do? Obviously, nothing. The three Stillwaters became hysterical. Their comments and congratulations were scraps of disjointed nonsense, and they got away under cover of more arrivals, in as great disorder as if the heavy guns Madam Bowker had stacked to the brim for Margaret had accidentally discharged into them. Madam Bowker could wait no longer. "Margaret," said she, "help me to my carriage." Mrs. Severence gave her difficult daughter an appealing glance, as if she feared the girl would cap the climax of rebellion by flatly refusing; but Margaret said sweetly: "Yes, Grandma." The two left the room, the old lady leaning heavily on her granddaughter and wielding her ebony staff as if getting her arm limbered to use it. In the hall, she said fiercely, "To your room," and waved her staff toward the stairway. Margaret hesitated, shrugged her shoulders. She preceding, and Madam Bowker ascending statelily afterward, they went up and were presently alone in Margaret's pretty rose and gold boudoir, with the outer door closed. "Now!" exclaimed Madam Bowker. "Not so loud, please," suggested the tranquil Margaret, "unless you wish Selina to hear." She pointed to the door ajar. "She's sewing in there." "Send the woman away," commanded the old lady. But Margaret merely closed the door. "Well, Grandmother?" "Sit at this desk," ordered the old lady, pointing with the ebony staff, "and write a note to that man Craig, breaking the engagement. Say you have thought it over and have decided it is quite impossible. And to-morrow morning you go to New York with me." Margaret seated herself on the lounge instead. "I'll do neither," said she. The old lady waved the end of her staff in a gesture of lofty disdain. "As you please. But, if you do not, your allowance is withdrawn." "Certainly," said Margaret. "I assumed that." Madam Bowker gazed at her with eyes like tongues of flame. "And how do you expect to live?" she inquired. "That is OUR affair," replied the girl. "You say you are done with me. Well, so am I done with you." It was, as Margaret had said, because she was not afraid of her grandmother that that formidable old lady respected her; and as she was one of those who can give affection only where they give respect, she loved Margaret--loved her with jealous and carping tenacity. The girl's words of finality made her erect and unyielding soul shiver in a sudden dreary blast of loneliness, that most tragic of all the storms that sweep the ways of life. It was in the tone of the anger of love with the beloved that she cried, "How DARE you engage yourself to such a person!" "You served notice on me that I must marry," replied the girl, her own tone much modified. "He was the chance that offered." "The chance!" Madam Bowker smiled with caustic scorn, "He's not a chance." "You ordered me to marry. I am marrying. And you are violating your promise. But I expected it." "My promise? What do you mean?"