Eunice didn't sulk, that was not her nature; she turned back to
her writing desk with an offended air, but with a smile as of one
who tolerates the vagaries of an inferior. This, she knew, would
irritate her aunt more than further words could do.

And yet, Eunice Embury was neither mean nor spiteful of
disposition. She had a furious temper, but she tried hard to
control it, and when it did break loose, the spasm was but of
short duration and she was sorry for it afterward. Her husband
declared he had tamed her, and that since her marriage, about two
years ago, his wise, calm influence had curbed her tendency to
fly into a rage and had made her far more equable and placid of
disposition.

His methods had been drastic--somewhat like those of Petruchio
toward Katherine. When his wife grew angry, Sanford Embury grew
more so and by harder words and more scathing sarcasms he--as he
expressed it--took the wind out of her sails and rendered her
helplessly vanquished.

And yet they were a congenial pair. Their tastes were similar;
they liked the same people, the same books, the same plays.
Eunice approved of Sanford's correct ways and perfect intuitions
and he admired her beauty and dainty grace.

Neither of them loved Aunt Abby--the sister of Eunice's father
--but her annual visit was customary and unavoidable.

The city apartment of the Sanfords had no guestroom, and