“Uncle Soc, do you think that you could get rooms for us on the next steamer,” she asked.
“Oh, what's your hurry?” I demanded.
She rose and said, with a proud, imperious gesture:
“Me for the United States!”
“I've already engaged the rooms, for I knew what would happen after we had had our talk,” I said.
We were waiting to take our steamer in Naples. The day after we reached there Mrs. Fraley called to see us. She had read in a Roman newspaper that we were at Bertolini's, and she had come over to talk with me “about a dreadful occurrence.” She had raised the spondoolix, and Miss Muriel had achieved the count. They had lived in paradise for three weeks and four days when the count got mad at Muriel and actually beat her over the shoulders with his riding-whip. It was all because the dear child had turkey-trotted with a young Englishman at a ball. She had meant no harm—poor thing!—all the girls were learning these new-fangled dances. Mrs. Fraley had naturally objected to the count's use of the whip, whereupon he had shown her the door and bade her leave his apartments. So she with the beautiful feet had been compelled to walk out of the place which her bounty had provided and go back to the dear old boarding-house. Muriel had followed her. They knew not what to do. Would I please advise her?
“You've done the right thing,” I said. “Keep away from him. He'll be using his cane next. The whip is a good thing, but not if it comes too late in life.”
“But how about my money?” she asked. “I can't afford to lose that.”
“My dear madame, you have already lost it. You may as well charge that to the educational fund. To some people knowledge comes high. I had a good reason for advising you against this marriage. In our land every home is a little republic that plays its part in the larger republics of the town and the county, and the affairs of each home and the welfare of its inhabitants are the concern of all. Here every home is a little independent kingdom. Its master is its king. His will is mostly its law. When he gets mad his whip or his cane may fall upon the transgressor. It's the old feudal spirit—the ancient habit of thought and hand. Of course in most countries wife-beating is forbidden, but generally the woman knows better than to complain, for she finds that it doesn't pay. So she cringes and obeys and holds her tongue. In America that sort of thing doesn't go. If a man tries it, the republic of the town gets hold of him right away. Really, I'd about as soon have the rights of a goat as the rights of a woman in Europe. In spite of that she's often well treated.”
I was interrupted by the porter's clerk, who came with a telegram. It was from Muriel, and it said: