Instead of becoming furious, Mrs. Richmond sank weakly back in her chair. “He’s my husband,” she said appealingly. “You don’t understand how much that means--not yet.” Beatrice laughed softly. “No, but I’m beginning to,” said she. However, she did not pursue that branch of the subject--did not force her mother into the corner of admission that the real source of Richmond’s power over her was not wifely duty nor yet motherly feeling, but love of the vast and costly luxury which being Richmond’s indulged wife got for her. All the girl wished to accomplish was to reduce her mother to that pliable state of mind in which she would cease to be the active enemy of her projects. Mrs. Richmond was now down to that meek weakness; through the rest of their talk her manner toward her daughter was friendly, sisterly, remonstrant rather than denunciatory. “You don’t realize what is the matter with you, Beatrice,” said she. “What _is_ the matter with me?” “You wouldn’t understand-- I couldn’t explain-- You have had no experience. If you had, you’d realize and control yourself.” “All I know is, I _must_ have _him_.” “That’s it, exactly,” cried her mother. “That’s the way it affects anyone who gets possessed by it. If you married under a spell of that sort you’d wonder at yourself afterwards--when you had got enough.” “But--I wouldn’t ‘get enough,’ as you call it.” “Oh, yes, you would. They always do.” “_Always?_” Mrs. Richmond shifted ground. “You will never get your father to consent--never!” “That’s the least of my troubles,” said Beatrice confidently. “The only question is: How could he help me to bring over Roger?” “How can you be so silly, child!” exclaimed the mother. “That fellow would jump at you just as soon as he found your father consenting.” Mrs. Richmond smiled. “And when he did jump at you-- Oh, I know you so well! You’d laugh at him and turn your back on him then.” “I wonder,” said Beatrice absently. “I wonder.” “I’m sure of it,” cried her mother with energy. “I--don’t--know,” replied the girl. “It isn’t a bit like me to marry out of my own class. At first I laughed at myself for even imagining I’d really marry Chang. I was fascinated by him--everything he said and did--and the way he said or did it--the way his hair grew--the way his clothes fit--the way he blew smoke out of his mouth--the way he held his palette--and his long brushes-- You see, mother, I was infatuated with him. Isn’t he _splendid_ to look at?” “He certainly is strikingly handsome,” admitted Mrs. Richmond. “But hardly more so than Peter.” “Oh, mother!” laughed out Beatrice. “You are not that undiscriminating. There’s all the difference between them that there is between--between a god and a mere mortal.” Contrasting the two men seemed to fire the girl afresh. “Yes, I do want Chang,” she cried. “I’d be enormously proud to have such a man to exhibit as my husband.” “But think, my dear! He’s nobody!” “You heard d’Artois----”