The flush deepened.
"Will you allow me to be insulted?" she cried.
"Let us be cool. You've yourself to thank for this, Victoria. Why aren't you pleasanter to him?"
"Oh, he's—I'm all I ought to be to him."
"I don't know what you are to him, you're very little with him."
I suppose that these altercations assume much the same character in all families. They are necessarily vulgar, and the details of them need not be recalled. For myself I must confess that my sister found me in a perverse mood; she, on her side, was in the unreasonable temper of a woman who expects fidelity but does not show appreciation. I suggested this point for her consideration.
"Well, if I don't appreciate him, whose fault was it I married him?" she cried.
"I don't know. Whose fault is it that I'm going to marry Elsa Bartenstein? Whose fault is anything? Whose fault is it that Coralie Mansoni is a pretty woman?"
"I've never seen her."
"Ah, you wouldn't think her pretty if you had."
Victoria looked at me for a few seconds; then she suddenly drew up a low chair and sat down at my feet. She turned her face up toward mine and took my hand. Well, we never really disliked one another, Victoria and I.
"Mother's so horrid about it," she said.
It was an appeal to an old time-honoured alliance, sanctified by common sorrows, endeared by stolen victories shared in fearful secrecy.
"She says it's my fault, just as you do. But you know her way."
I became conscious that what I had said would
