Addington, so Jeffrey Blake remembered when he came home to it, was a survival.  Naive constancies to custom, habits sprung out of old conditions and logical no more, and even the cruder loyalties to the past, lived in it unchanged.  This was as his mind conceived it.  His roots had gone deeper here than he knew while he was still a part of it, a free citizen.  The first months of his married life had been spent here, but as his prosperity burned the more brilliantly, he and Esther had taken up city life in winter, and for the summer had bought a large and perfectly equipped house in a colony at the shore.  That, in the crash of his fortunes, had gone with other wreckage, and now he never thought of it with even a momentary regret.  It belonged to that fevered time when he was always going fast and faster, as if life were a perpetual speeding in a lightning car.  But of Addington he did think, in the years that were so much drear space for reflection, and though he felt no desire to go back, the memory of it was cool and still.  The town had distinct social strata, the happier, he felt, in that.  There were the descendants of old shipbuilders and merchants who drew their sufficient dividends and lived on the traditions of times long past.  All these families knew and accepted one another.  Their peculiarities were no more to be questioned than the eccentric shapes of clouds.  The Daytons, who were phenomenally ugly in a bony way, were the Daytons.  Their long noses with the bulb at the base were Dayton noses.  The Madisons, in the line of male descent from distinguished blood, drank to an appalling extent; but they were Madisons, and you didn’t interdict your daughters’ marrying them.  The Mastertons ate no meat, and didn’t believe in banks.  They kept their money in queer corners, and there was so much of it that they couldn’t always remember where, and the laundress had orders to turn all stockings before wetting, and did indeed often find bills in the toe.  But the laundress, being also of Addington, though of another stratum, recognised this as a Masterton habit, and faithfully sought their hoarded treasure for them, and delivered it over with the accuracy of an accountant.  She wouldn’t have seen how the Mastertons could help having money in their clothes unless they should cease being Mastertons.  Nor was it amazing to their peers, meeting them in casual talk, to realise that they were walking depositories of coin and bills.  A bandit on a lonely road would, if he were born in Addington, have forborne to rob them.  These and other personal eccentricities Jeffrey Blake remembered and knew he should find them ticking on like faithful clocks.  It was all restful to recall, but horrible to meet.  He knew perfectly what the attitude of Addington would be to him.  Because he was Addington born, it would stand by him, and with a double loyalty for his father’s sake.  That loyalty, beautiful or stupid as you might find it, he could not bear.  He hoped, however, to escape it by making his father the briefest visit possible and then getting off to the West.  Anne had reminded him that Alston Choate had called, and he had commented briefly: 

“Oh! he’s a good old boy.”

But she saw, with her keen eyes gifted to read the heart, that he was glad he had not seen him.  The first really embarrassing caller came the forenoon after Madame Beattie had arrived at Esther’s, Madame Beattie herself in the village hack with Denny, uncontrollably curious, on the box.  Madame Beattie paid twenty-five cents extracted from the tinkling chatelaine, and dismissed Denny, but he looked over his shoulder regretfully until he had rounded the curve of the drive.  Meantime she, in her plumes and black velvet, was climbing the steps, and Jeffrey, who was on the side veranda, heard her and took down his feet from the rail, preparatory to flight.  But she was aware of him, and stepped briskly round the corner.  Before he reached the door she was on him.

“Here, Jeff, here!” said she peremptorily and yet kindly, as you might detain a dog, and Jeff, pausing, gazed at her in frank disconcertment and remarked as frankly: 

“The devil!”

Madame Beattie threw back her head on its stout muscular neck and laughed, a husky laugh much like an old man’s wheeze.

“No! no!” said she, approaching him and extending an ungloved hand, “not so bad as that.  How are you?  Tell its auntie.”

Jeffrey laughed.  He took the hand for a brief grasp, and returned to the group of chairs, where he found a comfortable rocker for her.

“How in the deuce,” said he, “did you get here so quick?”

Madame Beattie rejected the rocker and took a straight chair that kept her affluence of curves in better poise.

“Quick after what?” she inquired, with a perfect good-nature.

Jeffrey had seated himself on the rail, his hands, too, resting on it, and he regarded her with a queer terrified amusement, as if, in research, he had dug up a strange object he had no use for and might find it difficult to place.  Not to name:  he could name her very accurately.

“So quick after I got here,” he replied, with candour.  “I tell you plainly, Madame Beattie, there isn’t a cent to be got out of me.  I’m done, broke, down and out.”

Madame Beattie regarded him with an unimpaired good-humour.

“Bless you, Jeff,” said she, “I know that.  What are you going to do, now you’re out?”

The question came as hard as a stroke after the cushioned assurance preceding it.  Jeff met it as he might have met such a query from a man to whom he owed no veilings of hard facts.

“I don’t know,” said he.  “If I did know I shouldn’t tell you.”

Madame Beattie seemed not to suspect the possibility of rebuff.

“Esther hasn’t changed a particle,” said she.

Jeff scowled, not at her, but absently at the side of the house, and made no answer.

“Aren’t you coming down there?” asked Madame Beattie peremptorily, with the air of drumming him up to some task that would have to be reckoned with in the end.  “Come, Jeff, why don’t you answer?  Aren’t you coming down?”

Jeffrey had ceased scowling.  He had smoothed his brows out with his hand, indeed, as if their tenseness hurt him.

“Look here,” said he, “you ask a lot of questions.”

She laughed again, a different sort of old laugh, a fat and throaty one.

“Did I ever tell you,” said she, “what the Russian grand duke said when I asked him why he didn’t marry?”

“No,” said Jeff, quite peaceably now.  She was safer in the company of remembered royalties.

Madame Beattie sought among the jingling decorations of her person for a cigarette, found it and offered him another.

“Quite good,” she told him.  “An Italian count keeps me supplied.  I don’t know where the creature gets them.”

Then, after they had lighted up, she returned to her grand duke, and Jeff found the story sufficiently funny and laughed at it, and she pulled another out of her well-stored memory, and he laughed at that.  Madame Beattie told her stories excellently.  She knew how little weight they carry smothered in feminine graces and coy obliquities from the point.  Graces had long ceased to interest her as among the assets of a life where man and woman have to work to feed themselves.  Now she sat down with her brother man and emulated him in ready give and take.  Jeffrey forsook the rail which had subtly marked his distance from her; he took a chair, and put his feet up on the rail.  Madame Beattie’s neatly shod and very small feet went up on a chair, and she tipped the one she was sitting in at a dangerous angle while she exhaled luxuriously, and so Lydia, coming round the corner in a simple curiosity to know who was there, found them, laughing uproariously and dim with smoke.  Lydia had her opinions about smoking.  She had seen women indulge in it at some of the functions where she and Anne danced, but she had never found a woman of this stamp doing it with precisely this air.  Indeed, Lydia had never seen a woman of Madame Beattie’s stamp in her whole life.  She stopped short, and the two could not at once get hold of themselves in their peal of accordant mirth.  But Lydia had time to see one thing for a certainty.  Jeff’s face had cleared of its brooding and its intermittent scowl.  He was enjoying himself.  This, she thought, in a sudden rage of scorn, was the kind of thing he enjoyed:  not Farvie, not Anne’s gentle ministrations, but the hooting of a horrible old woman.  Madame Beattie saw her and straightened some of the laughing wrinkles round her eyes.

“Well, well!” said she.  “Who’s this?”

Then Jeffrey, becoming suddenly grave, as if, Lydia thought, he ought to be ashamed of laughing in such company, sprang to his feet, and threw away his cigarette.

“Madame Beattie,” said he, “this is Miss Lydia French.”

Madame Beattie did not rise, as who, indeed, so plumed and black-velveted should for a slip of a creature trembling with futile rage over a brother proved wanting in ideals?  She extended one hand, while the other removed the cigarette from her lips and held it at a becoming distance.

“And who’s Miss Lydia French?” said she.  Then, as Lydia, pink with embarrassment and disapproval, made no sign, she added peremptorily, “Come here, my dear.”

Lydia came.  It was true that Madame Beattie had attained to privilege through courts and high estate.  When she herself had ruled by the prerogative of a perfect throat and a mind attuned to it, she had imbibed a sense of power which was still dividend-paying even now, though the throat was dead to melody.  When she really asked you to do anything, you did it, that was all.  She seldom asked now, because her attitude was all careless tolerance, keen to the main chance but lax in exacting smaller tribute, as one having had such greater toll.  But Lydia’s wilful hesitation awakened her to some slight curiosity, and she bade her the more commandingly.  Lydia was standing before her, red, unwillingly civil, and Madame Beattie reached forward and took one of her little plump work-roughened hands, held it for a moment, as if in guarantee of kindliness, and then dropped it.

“Now,” said she, “who are you?”

Jeffrey, seeing Lydia so put about, answered for her again, but this time in terms of a warmth which astonished him as it did Lydia.

“She is my sister Lydia.”

Madame Beattie looked at him in a frank perplexity.

“Now,” said she, “what do you mean by that?  No, no, my dear, don’t go.”  Lydia had turned by the slightest movement.  “You haven’t any sisters, Jeff.  Oh, I remember.  It was that romantic marriage.”  Lydia turned back now and looked straight at her, as if to imply if there were any qualifying of the marriage she had a word to say.  “Wasn’t there another child?” Madame Beattie continued, still to Jeff.

“Anne is in the house,” said he.

He had placed a chair for Lydia, with a kindly solicitude, seeing how uncomfortable she was; but Lydia took no notice.  Now she straightened slightly, and put her pretty head up.  She looked again as she did when the music was about to begin, and her little feet, though they kept their decorous calm, were really beating time.

“Well, you’re a pretty girl,” said Madame Beattie, dropping her lorgnon.  She had lifted it for a stare and taken in the whole rebellious figure.  “Esther didn’t tell me you were pretty.  You know Esther, don’t you?”

“No,” said Lydia, in a wilful stubbornness; “I don’t know her.”

“You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve seen her.”

“You don’t like her then?” said Madame astutely.  “What’s the matter with her?”

Something gave way in Lydia.  The pressure of feeling was too great and candour seethed over the top.

“She’s a horrid woman.”

Or was it because some inner watchman on the tower told her Jeff himself had better hear again what one person thought of Esther?  Madame Beattie threw back her plumed head and laughed, the same laugh she had used to annotate the stories.  Lydia immediately hated herself for having challenged it.  Jeffrey, she knew, was faintly smiling, though she could not guess his inner commentary: 

“What a little devil!”

Madame Beattie now turned to him.

“Same old story, isn’t it?” she stated.  “Every woman of woman born is bound to hate her.”

“Yes,” said Jeff.

Lydia walked away, expecting, as she went, to be called back and resolving that no inherent power in the voice of aged hatefulness should force her.  But Madame Beattie, having placed her, had forgotten all about her.  She rose, and brushed the ashes from her velvet curves.

“Come,” she was saying to Jeffrey, “walk along with me.”

He obediently picked up his hat.

“I sha’n’t go home with you,” said he, “if that’s what you mean.”

She took his arm and convoyed him down the steps, leaning wearily.  She had long ago ceased to exercise happy control over useful muscles.  They even creaked in her ears and did strange things when she made requests of them.

“You understand,” said Jeffrey, when they were pursuing a slow way along the street, he with a chafed sense of ridiculous captivity.  “I sha’n’t go into the house.  I won’t even go to the door.”

“Stuff!” said the lady.  “You needn’t tell me you don’t want to see Esther.”

Jeff didn’t tell her that.  He didn’t tell her anything.  He stolidly guided her along.

“There isn’t a man born that wouldn’t want to see Esther if he’d seen her once,” said Madame Beattie.

But this he neither combated nor confirmed, and at the corner nearest Esther’s house he stopped, lifted the hand from his arm and placed it in a stiff rigour at her waist.  He then took off his hat, prepared to stand while she went on.  And Madame Beattie laughed.

“You’re a brute,” said she pleasantly, “a dear, sweet brute.  Well, you’ll come to it.  I shall tell Esther you love her so much you hate her, and she’ll send out spies after you.  Good-bye.  If you don’t come, I’ll come again.”

Jeffrey made no answer.  He watched her retreating figure until it turned in at the gate, and then he wheeled abruptly and went back.  An instinct of flight was on him.  Here in the open street he longed for walls, only perhaps because he knew how well everybody wished him and their kindness he could not meet.

Madame Beattie found Esther at the door, waiting.  She was an excited Esther, bright-eyed, short of breath.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

Madame Beattie took off her hat and stabbed the pin through it.  Her toupee, deranged by the act, perceptibly slid, but though she knew it by the feel, that eccentricity did not, in the company of a mere niece, trouble her at all.  She sank into a chair and laid her hat on the neighbouring stand.

“Where have you been?” repeated Esther, a pulse of something like anger beating through the words.

Madame Beattie answered idly:  “Up to see Jeff.”

“I knew it!” Esther breathed.

“Of course,” said Madame Beattie carelessly.  “Jeff and I were quite friends in old times.  I was glad I went.  It cheered him up.”

“Did he - ” Esther paused.

“Ask for you?” supplied Madame Beattie pleasantly.  “Not a word.”

Here Esther’s curiosity did whip her on.  She had to ask: 

“How does he look?”

“Oh, youngish,” said Madame.  “Rather flabby.  Obstinate.  Ugly, too.”

“Ugly?  Plain, do you mean?”

“No.  American for ugly - obstinate, sore-headed.  He’s hardened.  He was rather a silly boy, I remember.  Had enthusiasms.  Much in love.  He isn’t now.  He’s no use for women.”

Esther looked at her in an arrested thoughtfulness.  Madame Beattie could have laughed.  She had delivered the challenge Jeff had not sent, and Esther was accepting it, wherever it might lead, to whatever duelling ground.  Esther couldn’t help that.  A challenge was a challenge.  She had to answer.  It was a necessity of type.  Madame Beattie saw the least little flickering thought run into her eyes, and knew she was involuntarily charting the means of summons, setting up the loom, as it were, to weave the magic web.  She got up, took her hat, gave her toupee a little smack with the hand, and unhinged it worse than ever.

“You’ll have to give him up,” she said.

“Give him up!” flamed Esther.  “Do you think I want - ”

There she paused and Madame Beattie supplied temperately: 

“No matter what you want.  You couldn’t have him.”

Then she went toiling upstairs, her chained ornaments clinking, and only when she had shut the door upon herself did she relax and smile over the simplicity of even a feminine creature so versed in obliquity as Esther.  For Esther might want to escape the man who had brought disgrace upon her, but her flying feet would do her no good, so long as the mainspring of her life set her heart beating irrationally for conquest.  Esther had to conquer even when the event would bring disaster:  like a chieftain who would enlarge his boundaries at the risk of taking in savages bound to sow the dragon’s teeth.