Of course the story ran about the Riviera next day from Monaco to Hyères, taking protean forms, and changing with every tongue that told it.
One of its versions, one of the most accurate, reached the ears of William Massarene.
His nickname in the States had been “Blasted Blizzard,” and his temper was such as corresponded with the name. His wrath was terrible. From his point of view it was justified. His wife, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, was paralyzed with fear. His daughter remained calm. She did not for an instant admit that she was at fault, although she regretted that any cause for anger should arise between her and her parents.
“You shall apologize!” he swore a dozen times.
“I shall certainly never do that,” said Katherine with contemptuous composure.
“You shall apologize in public!”
“Neither in public, nor in private.”
“You shall go on your knees to him, if I flog you on to them!” yelled Mr. Massarene.
“My dear father, pray keep within the laws of that ‘good society’ into which you have been so anxious to enter,” she said, with a delicate scorn, which he felt through all his tough hide like the tingling strokes of the whip with which he threatened her.
“Cannot you understand, mother?” she said wistfully. “Surely you must see, must feel, the insult that it was?”