“Have just seen advertisement. Either the dog must be destroyed or our compact ends. Answer prepaid. Isabella.”
Gilead looked up.
“Yes, from her,” said Mr Brown, still with an icy quietude, in answer to the mute enquiry. And then the burst came—only a little rent at the outset, but rapidly roaring to a breach:—
“Now, isn’t that just like a woman—without reason or justice or decency—mere venomous spite, indifferent to the consequences to others so long as it can injure the object of its resentment. Sympathy? Nonsense! Tell me why, in the University boat-race on this river, nine women out of ten will be Cambridge? Out of pity for its persistent ill-success? Not in the least, sir. Simply because they think the colour the more becoming.” (The breach widened) “Consistency? Bosh! with minds the sport of any chance mood? Veering as the compass—changeable as the weather—you may forecast ’em fair in the morning, and be drenched or frozen by ’em in the afternoon?” (The breach split resoundingly) “Principles? Lunacy! Their one indestructible principle is vanity, and in their wild rush for personal notoriety of any sort, all principles and all decencies may go to the devil” (The breach, with a roar, rent from hem to hem). “From this moment I repudiate the cause,” shouted Mr Brown, glaring and dancing; “from this moment I refuse to identify myself with a sex so utterly deficient in the moral sense. Votes for women! Not unless we wish to see our national character for reason and fair-play thrown by the board! Not unless we wish to see our most cherished institutions of order and justice degraded to the uses of irresponsible malice. Incapable of governing, even themselves—a set of chattering harpies lusting for the blood of heroes!”
He ended with a roar. Gilead rose to his feet.
“The maid is waiting for an answer, sir,” he said; and, indeed, the poor girl stood as if petrified.
“Give me the paper!” yelled Mr Brown. He snatched it from the young man’s ready hand, slung out a pencil from his watch-chain, dabbed at the reply form, fuming and sputtering.
“HE DABBED AT THE REPLY FORM, FUMING AND SPUTTERING.”
“The dog must die, must he?” he panted ironically. “My child must be sacrificed to a swollen-headed harpy’s caprice! A useful lesson; I thank you, madam”—and he dashed off the following message. (Gilead had the assurance to glance at it, as he handed it to the girl): “Offer declined. The dog remains with me. Theophilus.”