Her eyes wavered, but she said: “Nothing, papa!” though less vigorously. “It was about money,” said I. “It always is--in all ranks of society. The beginnings of the quarrels have money at the bottom of them. Now--tell me!” She was silent. “I can’t help you unless you do.” “Oh, it was so sordid!” cried she. “And I thought him high above those things.” “No one that’s human is,” said I. “Any person who wears pants or skirts that have to be paid for is not above money.” “He wanted me to turn over to him all I had,” said she. “Think of that!” “I might have known,” said I. “He said it was beneath his dignity as an English gentleman to have a wife independent of him. And, do you know, papa, I was so infatuated that I almost yielded. I could see his point of view. And I’d have been glad to come to him for every cent. Only--” She stopped short. “Only what?” I urged. “I heard about that other woman. And his way of treating me-- He said it was the proper way for a marquis to treat his marchioness. And I liked the dignity and the beauty of it all, when others were about. But it seemed to me that when we were alone-- Oh, papa, I can’t tell you these things.” “Never mind,” said I. “I understand.” “And I was--a little jealous, away down in my heart--and suspicious. And I was afraid he wanted the money to spend on _her_.” “Um,” said I. “You didn’t tell your mother this?” “She hates sordidness of every kind,” said Margot. “And I hadn’t the courage. Besides, I’m sure mamma would have advised me to let him have his way. She wouldn’t sympathize with the--the weak side of my character.” I was interested. Could it be that Edna’s daughter had a “weak”--a human side? Could it be that her education and her mode of life had not altogether killed the natural and made her soul a garden of artificial flowers only? “So, you want to be free from him?” said I. “Free from him!” cried she, aghast. “Give up my position? Oh, papa--never--_never_!” “But you don’t love him. Don’t come away from that fire!” She seated herself by the miserable smoky little blaze again. “He is my husband. I am his wife. I am the Marchioness of Crossley.” And she drew herself up with as much of an air as her cold and the contracted space in the chimney-piece permitted. Unluckily, the sudden gesture caused a current of air, and she sneezed once--twice--three times. “Better get those furs,” said I. “You want the man back?” “Yes, indeed. I must have him back.” She clasped her hands and wailed, “If I only had a son! Then--_then_ I’d show Hugh that he couldn’t trample on me. But he has me in his power now. If he casts me off I shan’t have any position at all. The women are down on me. They hate all the American women, except those who toady to them and give them money or jewelry or pay their bridge and dressmaker’s bills. And they’re only too glad of the chance to crush me. But they’ll not succeed!” “Why not?” said I dryly.