Captain Phipps," Eleanor said with dignity, "I see a great
deal. He is one of the most cultivated men I ever met."

"Fiddlesticks! He smells like a soap-counter! When I see an affected man
I see a fool. He has airs enough to fill a music-box. But that's neither
here nor there. You understand definitely that I do not wish you to see
him again?"

Eleanor's silence did not satisfy Madam. She insisted upon a verbal
assurance, which Eleanor was loath to give.

"I tell you once for all, young lady," said Madam, by this time roused to
fury, "that you have _got_ to do what I say for another year. After that
you will be twenty-one, and you can go to the devil, if you want to."

"Grandmother!" cried Eleanor, shrinking as if from a physical blow. Then,
remembering her promise to her Aunt Enid, she bit her lip and struggled
to keep back the tears. As she started to leave the room, Madam called
her back.

"Here, take this," she said gruffly, thrusting a small morocco box into
her hand. "Isobel and Enid never had decent necks to hang 'em on. See
that you don't lose them." And without more ado she thrust Eleanor out of
the room and shut the door in her face.

Eleanor fled down the hall to her own room, and after locking the door
flung herself on the bed. It was always like that, she told herself
passionately; they nagged at her and tormented her and wore her out with
their care and anxiety, and then suffocated her with their affection. She
did not want their presents. She wanted freedom, the right to live her
own life, think her own thoughts, make her own decisions. She did not
mean to be ungrateful, but she couldn't please them all! The family
expectations of her were too high, too different from what she wanted.
Other girls with half her talents for the stage had succeeded, and just
because she was a Bartlett----

She clenched her fists and wished for the hundredth time that she had
never been born. She had been a bone of contention all her life, and,
even when the two families were not fighting over her, the Bartlett blood
was warring with the Martel blood within her. Her standards were
hopelessly confused; she did not know what she wanted except that she
wanted passionately to be let alone.

"Nellie!" called a gentle voice on the other side of the door. "Are you
ready for dinner?"

"Don't want any dinner," she mumbled from the depths of a pillow.

The door-handle turned softly and the voice persisted:

"You must unloc