upon this one.

"You spill it upon your shirt and on your coat," had argued Tommy. "I
like to see you always neat. Besides, it isn't a nice habit. I do wish,
dad, you'd give it up."

"I must," Peter had agreed. "I'll break myself of it. But not all at
once--it would be a wrench; by degrees, Tommy, by degrees."

So a compromise had been compounded. Tommy was to hide the snuff-box. It
was to be somewhere in the room and to be accessible, but that was all.
Peter, when self-control had reached the breaking-point, might try and
find it. Occasionally, luck helping Peter, he would find it early in the
day, when he would earn his own bitter self-reproaches by indulging in
quite an orgie. But more often Tommy's artfulness was such that he would
be compelled, by want of time, to abandon the search. Tommy always knew
when he had failed by the air of indignant resignation with which he
would greet her on her return. Then perhaps towards evening, Peter,
looking up, would see the box open before his nose, above it, a pair of
reproving black eyes, their severity counterbalanced by a pair of full
red lips trying not to smile. And Peter, knowing that only one pinch
would be permitted, would dip deeply.

"I want her," said Peter Hope, feeling with his snuff-box in his hand
more confidence in his own judgment, "to be a sensible, clever woman,
capable of earning her own living and of being independent; not a mere
helpless doll, crying for some man to come and take care of her."

"A woman's business," asserted Clodd, "is to be taken care of."

"Some women, perhaps," admitted Peter; "but Tommy, you know very well, is
not going to be the ordinary type of woman. She has brains; she will
make her way in the world."

"It doesn't depend upon brains," said Clodd. "She hasn't got the
elbows."

"The elbows?"

"They are not sharp enough. The last 'bus home on a wet night tells you
whether a woman is capable of pushing her own way in the world. Tommy's
the sort to get left on the kerb."

"She's the sort," retorted Peter, "to make a name for herself and to be
able to afford a cab. Don't you bully me!" Peter sniffed
self-assertiveness from between his thumb and finger.

"Yes, I shall," Clodd told him, "on this particular point. The poor
girl's got no mother."

Fortunately for the general harmony the door opened at the moment to
admit the subject of discussion.

"Got that _Daisy Blossom_ advertisement out of old Blatchl