"Now, now, Nancy," he said soothingly, "you are saying quite unjustifiable things. Your feelings are carrying away your sense of reason. Kuei-lien is right. I am not a child."
"Make her take those things away," Nancy persisted, determined upon one last stubborn appeal. "She is only trying to harm you. I am—"
"Be still," her father interrupted curtly. "I have had enough of this, do you understand? You have done your duty, you have taken care of me when I was ill. But it is no part of your duty to advise your father. Who has been teaching you such presumptuous manners? If I need you again, I shall call for you; until I do so, I don't want you coming here making these disgraceful scenes. I won't hear of such ungovernable interference with my own will—and that from a chit of a girl."
"Her boldness is becoming intolerable," commented Kuei-lien, as Nancy silently withdrew. This was one word too many for Herrick's ruffled temper.
"I wish you were as honest as she is," he said.
Nancy had won this much of a victory in blighting Kuei-lien's charms for the moment. Deep irritation settled on Herrick at the thought of this wordy brawl between concubine and daughter, a brawl they had waged as though his presence, his judgment, did not matter. They had treated him like a weakling. The irritation stung and rankled because the man knew too well his own cowardice was at the bottom of it, his cowardice and his vanity, which had kept him from supporting Nancy in her appeal to his best instincts. Nancy had said wild things, of course, but there was no doubt she believed all that she had said and it was more than possible that these wild guesses passed for truth in the women's quarters; Herrick had gained insight enough, after his years of multiple weddedness, to know some of the jealous currents that animated the course of life in his household. He did not appreciate a tenth of the actual facts, but he was beginning to see that his wives were not of one mind and that they were subject to natural fears as to what might become of them and their children if he died.
"I'll settle it once and for all," he decided, astonishing the household by calling for his chair. In Peking sedan chairs were becoming out-dated relics of the past; motor cars rushed everywhere and the wide, dusty streets were full of elegant rickshas, commodious enough for the fat officials who sat in stupid composure while their outrunners pushed and shouted a rapid way for them through the traffic. But Herrick would have none of these. He preferred the dignity of his heavy blue chair, which four bearers carried in state while his Chinese secretary, bringing cards, scuffled hastily in his wake.
The chair coolies finally halted before the gate of an ugly building, a grim and cheerless structure imitated in gray brick from the most disheartening of Western models. Herrick loathed the penal appearance of the place. After some hesitation he sent in cards for Mr. Ronald Nasmith.