"How dare you talk to poor, dear Ivy so cruelly?" Mrs. Cleveland exclaims, stepping back through the low, French window, and glaring at her son-in-law with tigerish hate in her keen, black eyes. "You have frightened her into hysterics, you unfeeling wretch!"
"I would thank you not to interfere between me and my wife," he answers, stung to defiance by the insolence of both mother and daughter. "You have always thrust yourself into my affairs. You have been the power behind the throne and moved Ivy like a puppet at your will. I wish to Heaven you would go away and leave us to fight our own battles. It would be something to be rid of even one of you!"
A scream of rage from Ivy, who proceeds to roll on the floor in violent hysterics. Such scenes as these are of frequent occurrence, but Mr. Noble has seldom spoken his mind so plainly, especially on the subject of his mother-in-law. There is no telling what might have happened, for Mrs. Cleveland looks furious enough to spring upon the offender and rend him limb from limb, but at this moment there appears upon the scene a messenger with one of those yellow-covered envelopes which carry joy or sorrow to so many hearts.
"A telegram," Mr. Noble exclaims, and tears it hurriedly open.
As he reads, a look of sorrow, strangely blended with relief, comes out upon his features. His wife, forgetful of her sham hysterics, springs up and regards him, intently.
"A telegram! From whom? And what does it mean?" she exclaims.
"It is from my lawyer," Mr. Noble answers, bitterly, "and it means that the devil takes care of his own so well that you will be able to gratify your latest whim. My uncle is dead and has left me his whole fortune."
"Glorious news!" Mrs. Cleveland and her daughter echo with one accord.