“I have here, madam,” he said, “a certain letter.” Mrs. Marjoy was sitting very stiff and straight in her chair. “A letter that was written to my late daughter-in-law—” “Indeed!” “Containing certain libellous statements concerning my son.” Mrs. Marjoy’s usually florid face grew a shade ruddier; her manner grew instantly more aggressive, and she began to twitch her shoulders, an infallible storm-signal to those who knew her. “Well, Mr. Strong, what has all this to do with me?” “Simply this, madam, that you wrote this letter and that I desire to discuss the situation with you.” Mrs. Marjoy’s first impulse was to slap this stolid and masterful old gentleman’s face. She restrained herself from such a physical retort, remembering a certain fracas she had once had with a cook. “How dare you, sir, make such an insinuation?” “I insinuate nothing, madam.” “Sir!” “I am merely stating a fact.” “You mean to tell me to my face that I am a liar?” John Strong emphasized his words by beating his closed fist rhythmically upon his knee. “No, madam, I am merely stating a fact. You wrote this letter. I should recommend you not to dispute the truth.” Mrs. Marjoy half started from her chair. There was a look of such unsophisticated malignity in her brown eyes that John Strong gave thanks inwardly that he was not her husband. “Am I to be insulted in my own house?” she asked. John Strong ignored the side issue, being thoroughly convinced that he had the lady within his power. “Libel, madam,” he continued, with great callousness—“libel is a serious matter. As you know, I am a wealthy man, a man of influence in the neighborhood.” “Your vulgar money, sir!” John Strong smiled, one of those peculiarly exasperating smiles that betray to the weaker disputants their own palpable inferiority. “My vulgar money, madam,” he said, “could easily upset your husband’s trade. Why, by my soul, I have already bought this rented house of yours over your heads. I could drive you step by step out of Saltire, ay, and subsidize a dozen pill-peddlers in the neighborhood. My vulgar money, madam, is not a power to be scoffed at.” Mrs. Marjoy seemed staggered. “You consider yourself a gentleman?” “I am an honest man, madam, and I am going to stand by my son.” “Your son—poof!” Mrs. Marjoy’s red face blazed. John Strong seemed as calm and undisturbed as though he were giving orders to a groom. “Let me but catch one tag of scandal from your tongue, madam,” he said, “one single fabrication compromising my son’s honor, and, by my immortal soul, my vulgar money shall make Saltire too dear for you.” “Preposterous!” “The profession, madam, this noble profession, must stand well with society. A soft answer turneth away wrath, and a good manner bringeth in guineas. I like your husband, madam, for he has a heart in him. But remember that a doctor is dependent upon whims, and that your tongue may do much to work his ruin.”