"Orlean," she heard now, from the lips of her husband. "Listen, before you go to the phone." He became suddenly calm as he said this. "I married you two years gone now, for better or for worse, and 'until death do us part.' That was the vow that I took and also you. I've done my best by you under the circumstances. I gave you a home and bed that you left. I gave you my love, and am willing to give you my life if that be necessary. But, Orlean, I didn't contract to observe the ideas and be subservient to the opinion of others. To force me to regard this is to do me a grave injustice. You cannot imagine, appreciate, maybe, how humiliating it is to be placed in such a position. I cannot explain it with you standing impatiently before me as you are. I have come here to try and have you discuss this matter with me from a practical point of view. Surely, having taken me as your God-given mate, you owe me that. You force me to honor and respect certain persons—"

"Don't you," she cried. "Don't you insinuate my father!" She advanced toward him threateningly in her excitement, and all sense of duty was gone. Only obedience to the one who had made it so remained. That she should rally to the support of his adversary, displaced his composure. He had hoped to have her reason it out with him, and he had prayed that he be given a little time, and then all would be well. He was aware that she was unequal to a woman's task. Not one woman in a thousand he knew would place a father before a husband; but his wife was different. She had been trained to be devoutly subservient to her father. For that reason he was willing to be patient—he had been patient. But at the same time he had suffered much, and her love and obedience to his worst enemy—even if it was her father, unfitted him for that with which he was now confronted. He was fast losing his composure, likewise his patience. Nothing in the world should stand between him and his wife. He became excited now, but calmed long enough to say:

"Go ahead, or come to me. There are two things a woman cannot be at the same time," and he waved his hand toward her resolutely. "A wife to the man she has married, and a daughter to her father." With this statement he sank back into the chair from which he had partly risen. He had said the last statement with such forceful logic, that it made her stop, pause uneasily, and then suddenly she straightened and turning, went to the telephone. But when she called over the wire to her father, all the composure that Jean Baptiste ever had left him. All the suffering and agony that he had experienced from the hand of the other asserted itself. He arose from the chair and came toward her. His eyes were bloodshot, his attitude was threatening. She called to her father, and the words she said were: