"You told me if I'd marry you'd continue my allowance after marriage. You even hinted you'd increase it." "But this is no marriage. I should consider a connection between such a man and a Severence as a mere vulgar intrigue. You might as well run away with a coachman. I have known few coachmen so ill-bred--so repellent--as this Craig." Margaret laughed cheerfully. "He isn't what you'd call polished, is he?" Her grandmother studied her keenly. "Margaret," she finally said, "this is some scheme of yours. You are using this engagement to help you to something else." "I refused Grant Arkwright just before you came." "You--refused--Arkwright?" "My original plan was to trap Grant by making him jealous of Craig. But I abandoned it." "And why?" "A remnant of decency." "I doubt it," said the old lady. "So should I in the circumstances. We're a pretty queer lot, aren't we? You, for instance--on the verge of the grave, and breaking your promise to me as if a promise were nothing." Mrs. Bowker's ebon staff twitched convulsively and her terrible eyes were like the vent-holes of internal fires; but she managed her rage with a skill that was high tribute to her will-power. "You are right in selecting this clown--this tag-rag," said she. "You and he, I see, are peculiarly suited to each other.... My only regret is that in my blind affection I have wasted all these years and all those thousands of dollars on you." Madam Bowker affected publicly a fine scorn of money and all that thereto appertained; but privately she was a true aristocrat in her reverence and consideration for that which is the bone and blood of aristocracy. "Nothing so stupid and silly as regret," said Margaret, with placid philosophy of manner. "I, too, could think of things I regret. But I'm putting my whole mind on the future." "Future!" Madam Bowker laughed. "Why, my child, you have no future. Within two years you'll either be disgracefully divorced, or the wife of a little lawyer in a little Western town." "But I'll have my husband and my children. What more can a woman ask?" The old lady scrutinized her granddaughter's tranquil, delicate face in utter amazement. She could find nothing on which to base a hope that the girl was either jesting or posing. "Margaret," she cried, "are you CRAZY?" "Do you think a desire for a home, and a husband who adores one, and children whom one adores is evidence of insanity?" "Yes, you are mad--quite mad!" "I suppose you think that fretting about all my seasons without an offer worth accepting has driven me out of my senses. Sometimes I think so, too." And Margaret lapsed into abstracted, dreamy silence. "Do you pretend that you--you--care for--this person?" inquired the old lady. "I can't discuss him with you, Grandmother," replied the girl. "You know you have washed your hands of me." "I shall never give up," cried the old lady vehemently, "until I rescue you. I'll not permit this disgrace. I'll have him driven out of Washington."