yellow."

The old lady dropped her lorgnon, seated herself. She held her
staff out at an angle, as if she were Majesty enthroned to pass
judgment of life and death. "You took too much champagne at those
vulgar Burkes last night," she proceeded. "It's a vicious thing
for a girl to do--vicious in every way. It gives her a reputation,
for moral laxity which an unmarried woman can ill-afford to have--
unless she has the wealth that makes men indifferent to character.
... Why don't you answer?"

Margaret shrugged her shoulders. "You know I detest champagne and
never drink it," said she. "And I don't purpose to begin, even to
oblige you."

"To oblige me!"

"To give you pretext for contention and nagging and quarreling."

Madam Bowker was now in the element she had been seeking--the
stormy sea of domestic wrangling. She struck out boldly, with
angry joy. "I've long since learned not to expect gratitude from
you. I can't understand my own weakness, my folly, in continuing
to labor with you."

"That's very simple," said Margaret. "I'm the one human being you
can't compel by hook or crook to bow to your will. You regard me
as unfinished business."

Madam Bowker smiled grimly at this shrewd analysis. "I want to see