“how very odd!” said the duke, in a tone of manifest annoyance. “how very odd!”

they were in the library and julia had imparted her information.

“not at all,” she replied indifferently. “he would have gone before this, but feared to worry you—thought he would feel better. last night he was so bad that i put him out of the house.”

“you put harold out?”

“yes. that will give you an idea of how he was feeling, when he was willing to mind me!”

“hm! why didn’t you go with him? a wife should never leave her husband for a day, particularly when he is ill!”

“we neither thought of that until the last minute—he was so nervous and there was only time to pack and catch the train—i was racking my brain over bradshaw. i offered to follow, of course, but he said he preferred i should remain and keep our engagements here—he’s developed such a love of society, poor harold—he seems haunted by the fear that we might drop out—you see, he was once a little wild?—”

“never really!” said the duke, emphatically. “why shouldn’t he sow a few oats—a fine young fellow? not that i approve; but it is natural enough.”

“of course, poor dear, and he fancies that people think him far worse than he was, and he has an idea that i am useful to him?—”

“quite so. that is what you charming young wives are for. but i cannot think why harold should feel obliged to go to paris. we have heart specialists here.”

“oh, but no one to compare with—with—corot. and harold knows him, you see, and has such confidence in him. he should have gone a week earlier, when—the—ah—thumping began.”

“thumping? dear me! is harold as bad as that?”

“oh, it only means that he needs the right kind of tonic—after so long a siege of fever—and all that sport—and the political campaign—you see, he should have had himself looked over sooner; but at bosquith there was only the country doctor, and then—he hated to leave us. i don’t think he’d have gone this morning if i hadn’t insisted. and he was dreadfully worried for fear you’d be angry.”

“oh, well,” said the duke, mollified; “after all, he knows his own affairs best. ah—wait a moment.”

julia, who was escaping, breathless with the lies she had told, and longing for fresh air, halted, and the duke swung round in his chair and laid the fingers of one hand over the back of the other.

“sit down again for a moment, my dear,” he said, not unkindly, although he had assumed what julia called his preaching manner and his praying voice.

she sat down on the edge of a chair. the duke resumed.

“there is a matter i have had in my mind since the night of the party. i don’t like to scold you, for in the main you are a very good child and a dutiful wife—really, i have little fault to find with you. but—ah—you must have seen that i was much annoyed when i learned, that without my consent, and in spite of my expressed distaste for those two young women, you had asked them to my house.”

“of course i knew you would be annoyed.”

“indeed? i supposed you merely thoughtless!”

“oh, no.” julia turned her large brilliant gaze upon the small slate-colored eyes whose dullness was lighting with indignation. “i told you—perhaps you have forgotten—that as you have made me your hostess, and expect me to devote a large part of my energies to acquitting myself creditably, i feel that the position carries with it certain rights. so i invited my best friends.”

“but you knew that i disapproved of them!”

“without reason. they are of your own class, and their reputations are immaculate. why should i snub my friends? the invitations went out in the names of all three of us.”

“that has nothing to do with it. i do not wish you to associate with these young women. their tendencies are dangerous. they have stepped out of their class and must take the consequences. old orders would not change if men were firmer—when harold returns i shall ask him to put his foot down. i cannot expect you to obey me, but you are bound to obey your husband.”

“i shall not in the matter of my friends. i have told him that if he interferes with me in any way, i’ll leave him and go into ishbel’s shop.”

“what?”

the duke half rose from his chair, then fell back, gasping. where was the responsive amenable child of two summers agone?

the child continued. “yes, i am doing my best. i am a dutiful wife, and i try to look and act” (she almost said “like a future duchess,” but her nimble mind leaped aside in time) “as if i had been entertaining all my life. i listen to lady arabella’s lectures, and aunt maria’s, to say nothing of yours and harold’s. even lady arabella says i’ve done very well. but i have a few rights of my own, and if i’m interfered with i’ll do as i said. i don’t care so much for all this. i’d rather be free like ishbel.”

“you have no comprehension of the duties of a wife,” gasped the outraged duke, “or of your position. that a member of my family?—”

“it is not so much that i am asking. lots of women have lovers?—”

“lovers!” the duke almost strangled. “what does a child like you know about lovers? and in my house—you have never heard such a subject mentioned.”

“oh? i can tell you that a lot of the women that have visited us?—”

“hush! i shall listen to no insinuations about my guests. you wicked little thing!”

“no. i was about to tell you that i’ve no intention of being wicked. i should hate a lover.”

“indeed! i am happy to be reassured.” the duke always felt at his best when sarcastic, and he sat erect and looked severely at this naughty child who did not in the least comprehend what she was talking about.

“you are too young to argue with,” he said. “not that i should ever think of arguing with a woman of any age. as regards bridgit herbert and ishbel jones, if your husband upholds you in your friendship with them i have nothing further to say except that i absolutely refuse to have them in my house again. but if harold does not—this is what you must understand once for all: your husband’s word is law.”

julia smiled.

“what do you mean?” the duke had a curious sinking in the pit of his stomach, and wondered if he too should not consult a specialist.

“you men are so funny.”

“funny! madam!”

“yes, that is the word. ishbel told me they were when i first came over, and i’ve found it out since for myself.”

“funny!”

“terribly funny.”

“if you don’t explain yourself—”

“i mean—for one thing—just one!—that you never find out we have our own way in spite of you. you think you are tyrants, and there isn’t one of you that can’t be led round by the nose—managed. well, i don’t like that method. i won’t bother to manage any man. you’re not worth the trouble, and it’s a confession of inferiority on our part, anyhow. the more i see of you, the less inferior i feel. besides, i enjoy speaking out, having things understood without a lot of beating round the bush. i’ve discovered that i’ve good fighting blood, and i’ve learned that women have plenty of resources outside of husbands; all that is necessary is to find the courage and the energy to enjoy them. but so many don’t. they’re all in love with one thing or another—husbands, lovers, society, fine houses, clothes, luxury—so they ‘manage’; and it has spoiled men, flattered them for centuries that they were the stronger and wiser sex; and, of course, demoralized women. no one can expand without the courage that comes of being able to speak the truth. men can afford to be truthful whether they are or not, so they have gone ahead of us. i shall become demoralized all right, but not in that way. not in any way that i can help. i shan’t lie—for myself—and i shan’t employ crooked methods. my mother told me to marry, and i did, because at that time i thought it right and natural to obey. besides, i suppose one man’s much the same as another. i am resigned. i shan’t cry as some women do. one woman down at bosquith last summer used to come into my room when i wanted to sleep, and cry out, ‘i hate life! oh, how i hate life!’ she was afraid her husband would find out about her lover and she was sick of the lover besides. now she has a new lover?—”

“hold your tongue!” the duke for once in his life thundered. “i forbid you to say another word?—”

“oh, i’m not very much interested in those things. what i intended to say was that i’ll do my duty, since married i am, but i’ll also do as i choose in some things. you can’t stop me. you might have done so in the days when bosquith was built, but a lot of you seem to forget that times have changed—they change every minute, if you did but know it.”

“so it seems! i should think they did! great heaven!”

the duke paused a moment as if he expected heaven to respond. receiving no inspiration, he concluded with dignity: “i must think this matter over. you may go.”

julia almost ran out of the library and up to her own room. then could the duke have seen her he would first have received another shock, then misinterpreted what he saw, and plumed himself. for julia sat down and wept. she had lied hideously, worse still, glibly. and for the first time she quite realized that of late she had developed a poise, a fertility of resource in dealing with the mean tyrant that dwelt in the men to whom she was almost subject, that for the moment horrified her. was it true that she was growing hard? she wished she had talked more confidentially with nigel instead of flippantly dancing away from the subject. was she no longer young? she had a real passion for truth. were there to be no conditions in which she could indulge it? she glanced back over the past two years. there had been a time when she spoke the literal truth on all occasions; now she spoke it when it was feasible, or impressive, but rarely without forethought. it was seldom that she let herself go. she felt a hatred of civilization stir, wondered if in the whole planetary system there was a world where truth was the standard, where every man was himself, where the petty lies which made the great ones inevitable were unknown. a prophetic ray suggested that such conditions might involve complications unless human nature itself were of a new brand; but she was not in the mood to follow the thought to its logical finish. she wanted freedom here, and it appeared to be impossible of attainment. but at least she would strive for independence. to both of the men who shadowed her life she had read what the americans called the riot act. that, at least, was something accomplished. she could not be accused of deceit, despised because she paid the tribute of her sex to their superiority.

suddenly her spirits darted upward on wings. she was free of her husband for a week, perhaps longer. she bathed her eyes and danced about the room. but when she realized the source of her exultation she turned hastily from it, dressed, and went to ishbel’s shop.