Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. Their houses became a refuge of ill repute, the source of rumor and intrigue in the highest echelons of society. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. She could tell that he was furious in that instant. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. Don’t try to shield anybody or hide anything. Stay! I'll go myself. Do you understand?” “I do not,” he answered.
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