Such was Marjorie at eighteen—a dangerous mixture, particularly liable to explode under compression.
She had risen early this Sunday morning in order to ramble through the woods and compose her turbulent spirit. The previous evening had witnessed a sleep-destroying interview between her father and herself. After prayers, while Mr. Clegg, according to his custom, was setting the markers in the great family Bible for the following morning's devotions, Marjorie had seated herself beside him at the head of the library table, with the air of one determined upon a plunge. She waited until the servants had filed out and the rest of the family were dispersed. Then she came to the attack with characteristic promptness.
"Father," she said, "may I go and be trained as a hospital nurse?"
"No," replied Mr. Clegg, without hesitation or heat; "you may not."
"May I learn shorthand and typewriting, then?"
"No."
"May I go and take training in some profession? Any kind," she added eagerly, "as long as it is useful."
"No," said Mr. Clegg for the third time. Then with the air of a just person patient under importunity:
"Why?"
"For two reasons," said the girl. "I want to be useful, and I want to be independent."