Finally, there were the children. One could never tell what one’s children would grow up into. Of the four, she had regarded the younger daughter as the safest because she was intensely proud, fond of social position, of fashionable luxury--fonder of them than of anything--except, perhaps, of having her own way where opposed. Yes, Beatrice would never cause her social anxiety. In the irony of fate it was she and only she who had become troublesome. The refusal to marry Peter Vanderkief was bad. The infatuation for an artist, eminent though he seemed to be--at least, in France--was worse. This dressmaking was worst. To Mrs. Richmond’s excited fancy it seemed to foreshadow social downfall--not from the fashionable set, but from leadership in it. If there had been so much as a single previous generation of fashionable Richmonds, or if their own fashion were a matter of twenty years instead of a scant ten, the thing wouldn’t matter. Beatrice would be regarded as eccentric--and eccentricity is a mark of aristocratic blood. But, in the circumstances, for Beatrice to become a dressmaker in partnership with a French maid and a chauffeur---- Mrs. Richmond burst in upon her husband at his office with her fury intact. Richmond knew at a glance that he had to deal with a revolt and a dangerous one. He showed that he understood all about its origin by saying as soon as his secretary had gone: “You’ve been to see Beatrice.” “She told you this morning that she was going into the dressmaking business?” said the wife, nostrils dilating, eyes blazing at him. “Yes.” And Richmond concentrated himself in a corner of his big chair. It looked like a gesture of shrinking, of timidity. In fact, it was simply his way of gathering himself together at the first onslaught of danger. “Here in New York!” “Yes.” “With Valentine!” Richmond made a slight gesture of assent. “And--_Léry!_” Richmond from the corner of his chair stretched out one hesitating hand to the papers on the desk before him. “What are you going to do about it?” demanded the wife in a low tone that sounded as if it had forced its way through clinched teeth. Richmond leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his big head, stared out of the window. “What are you going to do about it?” repeated his wife. Still no reply. “Are you going to sacrifice all that I’ve spent so many years in building up?” “You?” snapped Richmond, with contemptuous sarcasm. “What have _you_ done?” “I’ve made our social position--that’s what I’ve done.” “You mean _I_’ve built it--my money and my power. People recognize us because they don’t dare anger _me_.” This in the voice of axiomatic truth. But Mrs. Richmond was too angry--too alarmed. Panic has its courage more dangerous than valor’s. “Look at the Galloways,” cried she. “They’ve got more money than we have. Look at the Roebucks--more money than we have--and Roebuck a man you’re afraid of.” “I’m afraid of nobody!” blustered he.