“I suppose I’m not to believe this is your fault, my daughter,” added the mother as though unaware of the interruption. “I take it that Madame Felice has ignored my orders. To-morrow I shall ’phone her and withdraw my patronage from her establishment.” Hugh had made no move or word as he calmly looked his wife over. But there was now distaste in the closing of his eyes as though to shut out the vision in the doorway, and veil the disappointment he feared he could not hide. Gaining confidence in her father’s presence, Elinor Benton answered her mother calmly, but with little show of due respect. “Now, mother,” she implored, “don’t get so excited—this isn’t a tragedy, and don’t you go and ’phone Felice—because it wasn’t her fault. I called her up and told her to leave the dress as it was.” “Of course, you’re aware she had no right to take orders from you contrary to mine,” Marjorie persisted, with lifted eyebrows. “Oh, I just told her the orders came from you—that you had changed your mind.” “You dared!” Marjorie fairly gasped. “You are admitting you lied about it. I wouldn’t have believed my daughter capable of such a thing.” Hugh believed the time had come for his promised interference. “Now, now,” he soothed, “I fail to see what all this fuss is about. If the child wants to display her pretty neck and arms, I can’t see where the harm is—and as for her telephoning to Madame Felice, I can readily understand her doing that in order to evade an unnecessary argument.” Marjorie Benton looked her husband over as though he were an interfering stranger. “There have been many things which does not surprise me at your attitude,” she said icily. “However, that is aside from the point. Come, Elinor, we will go upstairs and see what Marie can do in arranging some sort of scarf about you.” “We will do nothing of the kind. I won’t! I won’t!” Elinor stamped her foot angrily. “Once and for all, mother, you’ll have to understand that I’m not a baby, and I refuse to be ordered about in that manner. I’ll wear this dress as it is to-night, or I’ll lock myself in my room and you’ll be obliged to give my debut party without me.” Hugh walked over to his wife and placed his hand appealingly on her lace-covered arm. “She means it, I’m afraid,” he whispered. “Hadn’t you better permit her to have her way this time? Remember, we have two hundred guests coming.” Just for a moment Marjorie was silent, fighting what she knew was a losing battle. How bitter it was that she should have to battle with these two she loved so dearly. She turned away her face that they might not witness her struggle. When she spoke it was in her usual cool, expressionless voice—not the voice of the Marjorie Benton of Atwood, but one which the years between had evolved.