"That's all right. They'll respect your father now. They'll know I'm a man not to be trifled with. How are you?" He shot this last at me as though he were at Bisley competing for the King's Prize.
"I'm pretty well, thank you."
"Well, you don't look it. You're as thin as a rat. But it's rather improved you than otherwise, made you look less defiant and assertive."
"Oh, Peter," mother broke in, "Marguerite never looked assertive. I remember Dimbie saying to me that he had never seen a sweeter face."
"Of course, that is exactly the sort of thing Dumbarton would say," he jeered; "but then Dumbarton's an ass."
"Look here, father," I said steadily, "once and for all I wish you to remember that I will not allow you to call my husband an ass. Yes, allow, I repeat the word." I shivered all over as I spoke. Never, never had I dared to speak to Peter in such a manner, but my blood was up. "Dimbie was a brave man to have married into such a family. His courage was immense there." I clutched the tortoise as I spoke—clutched it for support, but I kept my head well up, looking at him defiantly and waiting for the storm.
But it never burst. To my everlasting astonishment Peter remained mute and just stared at me, stared at me for a full minute, then putting his hands in his pockets, he said, "Well, well!" and stumped out of the room.
"There!" I said, "that is the way you should have treated Peter—always."
But mother sat with her hands locked and remained speechless for some seconds.
"How dared you do it?" she breathed at length.