“Allow me to take you back to your chaperon,” he said in glacial accents which she infinitely preferred to his familiarity. “What have you done to him?” said that lady as he left her with a ceremonious bow. “I have told him a truth,” said Katherine indifferently. “I suppose it is too strong diet for him. He is not used to it!” “I should think not indeed!” said the lady, much disturbed. “What can you have said?” “He will probably tell people,” said Katherine. “If he do not, I shall not.” He did, not very wisely, tell two of his boon companions that same night as they sat smoking with him. Of course the story ran about the Riviera next day from Monaco to Hyères, taking protean forms, and changing with every tongue that told it. One of its versions, one of the most accurate, reached the ears of William Massarene. His nickname in the States had been “Blasted Blizzard,” and his temper was such as corresponded with the name. His wrath was terrible. From his point of view it was justified. His wife, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, was paralyzed with fear. His daughter remained calm. She did not for an instant admit that she was at fault, although she regretted that any cause for anger should arise between her and her parents. “You shall apologize!” he swore a dozen times. “I shall certainly never do that,” said Katherine with contemptuous composure. “You shall apologize in public!” “Neither in public, nor in private.” “You shall go on your knees to him, if I flog you on to them!” yelled Mr. Massarene. “My dear father, pray keep within the laws of that ‘good society’ into which you have been so anxious to enter,” she said, with a delicate scorn, which he felt through all his tough hide like the tingling strokes of the whip with which he threatened her. “Cannot _you_ understand, mother?” she said wistfully. “Surely you must see, must feel, the insult that it was?” “Oh, my dear, don’t appeal to me!” said her mother with a sob. “Great folks aren’t like other folks; and your father must know best.” “How dare you turn to your fool of a mother!” he yelled. “Is it she whose dollars have dressed you fine, and cockered you up amongst blood-fillies all these years?” “I regret that I have cost you so much. But if you will allow me, I will relieve you of my presence and maintain myself,” she said, with a tranquillity which made her father’s rage choke him as though he were on the point of apoplexy. “Did I bring you up amongst duchesses’ daughters that you might disgrace me?” he cried, with a foul oath.