Mrs. Marjoy seemed staggered.
“You consider yourself a gentleman?”
“I am an honest man, madam, and I am going to stand by my son.”
“Your son—poof!”
Mrs. Marjoy’s red face blazed. John Strong seemed as calm and undisturbed as though he were giving orders to a groom.
“Let me but catch one tag of scandal from your tongue, madam,” he said, “one single fabrication compromising my son’s honor, and, by my immortal soul, my vulgar money shall make Saltire too dear for you.”
“Preposterous!”
“The profession, madam, this noble profession, must stand well with society. A soft answer turneth away wrath, and a good manner bringeth in guineas. I like your husband, madam, for he has a heart in him. But remember that a doctor is dependent upon whims, and that your tongue may do much to work his ruin.”
Mrs. Marjoy was a woman whose whole courage resided in her temper. Her heroism was in this respect spasmodic, impressive, yet uncertain. She overpowered others by her gift of making life unlivable for those who withstood her will. Her husband had always preferred surrender for the sake of his own peace. But, like most women, when thoroughly frightened she was no longer the Medusa whose face petrified her enemies. In John Strong she had met her match.
Thus, after one shrewd glare at the tea-merchant’s obdurate face, she subsided somewhat suddenly in her chair and gave way to semi-hysterical tears. It was, indeed, an impressive sight to see Mrs. Marjoy weep. Yet there was no subtlety, no dramatic purpose in her grief. Her tears were the tears of an angry and impotent woman.