Mildred and I aren't like the women you've been used to.
We are ladies.''

Presbury's rage boiled over again at the mention of
Mildred. ``That daughter of yours!'' he cried.
``What's to be done about her? I've got no money to
waste on her.''

``You miserable Tammany THING!'' exclaimed she.
``Don't you dare SPEAK of my daughter except in the
most respectful way.''

And once more she opened out upon him, wreaking
upon him all her wrath against fate, all the pent-up
fury of two years--fury which had been denied such
fury's usual and natural expression in denunciations of
the dead bread-winner. The generous and ever-kind
Henry Gower could not be to blame for her wretched
plight; and, of course, she herself could not be to blame
for it. So, until now there had been no scapegoat.
Presbury therefore received the whole burden. He,
alarmed lest a creature apparently so irrational, should
in wild rage drive him away, ruin him socially, perhaps
induce a sympathetic court to award her a large part of
his income as alimony, said not a word in reply. He
bade his wrath wait. Later on, when the peril was over,
when he had a firm grip upon the situation--then he
would take his revenge.

They gave up the expensive suite at the Waldorf that