Women! Mr. Lanley shook his head, still moving briskly northward with that quick jaunty walk of his. And this second marriage--what about that? They seemed happy. Farron was a fine fellow, but not, it seemed to him, so attractive to a woman as Severance. Could he hold a woman like Adelaide? He wasn’t a man to stand any nonsense, though, and Mr. Lanley nodded; then, as it were, withdrew the nod on remembering that poor Joe had not wanted to stand any nonsense either. What in similar circumstances could Farron do? Adelaide always resented his asking how things were going, but how could he help being anxious? How could any one rest content on a hillside who had once been blown up by a volcano? He might not have been any more content if he had stayed to dinner at his son-in-law’s, as he had been asked to do. The Farrons were alone. Mathilde was going to a dinner, with a dance after. She came into the dining-room to say good night and to promise to be home early, not to stay and dance. She was not allowed two parties on successive nights, not because her health was anything but robust, but rather because her mother considered her too young for such vulgar excess. When she had gone, Farron observed: “That child has a will of iron.” “Vincent!” said his wife. “She does everything I suggest to her.” “Her will just now is to please you in everything. Wait until she rebels.” “But women don’t rebel against the people they love. I don’t have to tell you that, do I? I never have to manœuver the child, never have to coax or charm her to do what I want.” He smiled at her across the table. “You have great faith in those methods, haven’t you?” “They work, Vin.” He nodded as if no one knew that better than he. Soon after dinner he went up-stairs to write some letters. She followed him about ten o’clock. She came and leaned one hand on his shoulder and one on his desk. “Still working?” she said. She had been aware of no desire to see what he was writing, but she was instantly aware that his blotting-paper had fallen across the sheet, that the sheet was not a piece of note-paper, but one of a large pad on which he had been apparently making notes. Her diamond bracelet had slipped down her wrist and lay upon the blotting-paper; he slowly and carefully pushed it up her slim, round arm until it once more clung in place. “I’ve nearly finished,” he said; and to her ears there was some under sound of pain or of constraint in his tone. A little later he strolled, still dressed, into her room. She was already in bed, and he came and sat on the foot of the bed, with one foot tucked under him and his arms folded.