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A MAN’S home is often a pretty fair index of his character. The Gilbert residence, for instance, was impressive from the outside, and its grounds, inasmuch as they showed from the street, were meticulously kept. Luxuriant shrubbery and some fine old ivy softened the outlines of the house itself and concealed its unattractive features. Inside, it was chilly and formal and rather colorless in spite of all that its mistress had been able to do, for Gilbert had employed a decorator to furnish the more important first-floor rooms—those which visitors saw. The butler’s pantry and the kitchen he had never remodeled and they were both antiquated and inconvenient.

Upstairs it was much the same. Mrs. Gilbert’s and Edith’s bedrooms were quite nice, but his was the largest and the most luxurious room in the house. The guest chambers were only fair—a fact of little importance inasmuch as they were seldom occupied. As for the service wing, it was dark and damp and the plumbing was wretched. The basement was horrid and the laundry a disgrace.

Mrs. Gilbert had long since abandoned her efforts to effect further betterments in the premises, for her husband declared that they suited him and he refused to allow her to make any changes. Having learned by experience how useless it was to try and dent that shell of self-satisfaction with which he was armored, she had to content herself with trying to run the place as well and as economically as possible. It was far easier to endure dissatisfaction with her home than to suffer the chill of her husband’s disapproval.

Today, when he sought her out, she inferred from his expression and from his tone of voice that he was pained at something and she managed to guess pretty well what it was when he began by telling her all about his success with the censorship bill.

Having, as he thought, adroitly led up to the subject in his mind, he said: “In view of the outstanding position I have taken in this matter of salacious motion pictures, I am a little surprised that you are not more careful to respect it. I’m afraid you don’t realize the full force of your example. As my wife you are a person of importance, and you must not forget that the community watches you with jealous eyes.”

“Henry,”—Mrs. Gilbert spoke smilingly—”isn’t it possible that you exaggerate our importance? If you only knew it, Hopewell cares very little what we do so long as we behave ourselves decently.”

“Our conceptions of ‘decent’ behavior are at variance,” Gilbert said, stiffly. “ ‘Decent,’ of course, is not the word to use in this connection, but I repeat that it is inconsiderate of you to utterly disregard my views.”

“Perhaps it is,” his wife admitted. “But, Henry, are you considerate of my views? Or those of other people?”

The man stirred impatiently. “Let us not argue—play hide and seek with words. It is time we had a serious talk. Frankly, I’m not at all satisfied with—with the condition of affairs in my own household. For some time I have been aware of a growing resentment on Edith’s part, an increasing rebellion against my authority. As much as I hate to say so, I’m afraid you are to blame for it. She is not developing into the sort of girl I had hoped.”

“No, I dare say she isn’t. And of course you can’t understand why.”

“Right, I can’t. I have tried by word and by deed to inculcate in her the ideals of true womanhood, but the seed appears to have fallen upon sterile ground. Youth, I grant you, is prone to be headstrong and thoughtless, but her total lack of sympathetic—”

“Henry,” his wife interrupted again with a smile, “I’m just one mother, not a whole mothers’ club. For Heaven’s sake let’s talk like man and wife! Now then, you know very well there’s nothing wrong with Edith. What has she done this time?”

“It isn’t ‘this time’; it’s all the time. I am alarmed by her antagonism to my ideas. She is becoming a worldly girl. Take her manner of dressing: she refuses absolutely to respect my desires.”

“If you mean that she resents your ideas about dress, I’ll agree. I don’t like them, either.”

“She has more clothes than any girl in Hopewell.”

“And you pick them out, whenever she lets you. If you had your way we’d be the dowdiest women in town. Women have to observe styles, Henry.”

“I’m not going to argue that matter. What concerns me more deeply is the girl’s moral and spiritual welfare. I have reason to feel concerned. She is a young woman now; she is beginning to feel the impulses and the yearnings of her sex.”

“What do you mean by that?” the mother inquired, curiously

“Oh, I have eyes! I’m shrewd in such matters. Have you ever observed the way she brightens up, sparkles, when men are around? She becomes a different creature. I trust you realize the significance of that—that peculiar animation, without my speaking more plainly.”

“Isn’t that natural; perfectly normal?”

Gilbert did not deign to answer. “Long ago I made plain my opposition to dancing. I did not actually forbid it in so many words. Why should I? How could I explain to her, without indelicacy, the fact that physical contact of that sort is bound to stimulate the baser passions? I discover that she has learned how to execute these modern jungle antics and actually practices them with young men at the Country Club! Her sex-consciousness is unmistakable. One day I surprised her in a disgraceful exhibition with that Dicky Young. They were romping through the house; he was chasing her; they were laughing hysterically. She wore one of those thin, knitted silk things—a sort of sweater— and there was no corset underneath. Her—well, the womanly outlines of her figure were most noticeable. I was shocked, really. He caught her; they wrestled, struggled: her hair was down and there was an unmistakable brightness, a glitter to her eyes. It could have had but one significance. The game they were pretending to play had only one purpose: he was hungry to get his hands upon her; her flight was a subterfuge to excite him.”

Mrs. Gilbert opened her lips to speak, then compressed them. She listened while her husband went on:

“Innocent amusement is one thing; a deliberate effort to arouse animal instincts in the predatory male is quite another. I’m no prude, but I tremble at thought of the precipice toward which our daughter is rushing. I have been too careless, too indulgent. I have left her welfare too much in your hands.” When his wife stirred, the speaker raised a soft, white hand. “Wait! I speak kindly. We have different ideas about many things and I’m not censuring you. I flatter myself that I am broad-minded, just. I dare say your love for Edith blinds you to the truth. But the fact remains that our little girl is being awakened to her—I can’t think of any word better than sex-consciousness—and we must begin at once to combat it. That is one matter I had in mind.”

“What you say frightens me, indeed,” the woman said.

“I’m glad—”

“Yes, it frightens me to think what would become of her if something happened to me.” Before her husband could ask what she meant by this she said, “From what you told me a while ago I assume that you blame this awakening of Edith’s ‘sex-consciousness’ upon motion pictures.”

“To some extent, yes. I knew that you took her to picture shows now and then, but I assumed that you exercised a motherly care to make sure that she saw only clean, instructive pictures such as the news reels, the scenic views, and perhaps the historical film dramas—”

“Oh, Henry! You’re quite absurd,” Mrs. Gilbert wearily exclaimed.

Her husband colored; stiffly he said: “Please don’t anger me. I had no idea you permitted her to see vulgar and salacious pictures—things like ‘Silken Savages,’ for instance, that are aimed directly at the passions.”

“I suppose Miss Galloway told you we were there. She sees all the sexy features.”

“Then you did see it?”

“Yes, indeed. The acting had been widely advertised. Both Edith and I thought the story itself was pretty stupid.” The speaker’s tone changed as she continued: “If you were like other men, Henry—or perhaps I’d better say if I had a mind like yours—I’d resent your intimacy with that woman.”

“That is an unwarranted remark,” the man declared with some heat. “Belle Galloway is a woman of the highest character and—”

“But I haven’t a mind like yours. And besides, I’m sure she wouldn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m glad you acknowledge—”

“She hasn’t the courage. Neither have you.”

There was a moment of silence during which Henry Gilbert had a struggle with himself. He ended it by saying: “We will not discuss her. What I wish to say is this—I am dissatisfied with the atmosphere in which Edith is growing up and the way you are looking after her. She is in danger. I have endured your lack of sympathy with my ideals, but I cannot tolerate your open defiance of them which is reflected in her. I tell you her soul is at stake. We must make a change and I think I have arrived at the solution. I propose to send her to my sister Ella and—”

“What?” Mrs. Gilbert exclaimed.

“Ella is willing to take her and exercise the same careful supervision over her that she exercised over her own child.”

“Do you mean to say you and Ella have talked this over? You mean you want to send Edith there—to live?’’ The mother’s voice was sharp with incredulity.

“For a while. For a year, perhaps.”

“Why—it’s absurd! I won’t let you.”

“Alice!” the husband cried in a shocked tone.

“I can’t believe you’re serious.”

“I am. Quite serious.”

It was an instant before Mrs. Gilbert managed to inquire: “You actually mean to tell me that I’m not a fit person to raise my own child? Is that it?”

“The facts are as they are. Edith is unruly. She refuses to respect my wishes or to obey my commands.”

“That’s not true!”

“I am forced to the reluctant conclusion that your lack of sympathy, if not your actual antagonism to my views, encourages her rebellion.”

“Well, she isn’t going to Ella’s,” the mother said, in a tone of finality. “We didn’t argue the Galloway matter; we won’t argue this.”

“My dear! This is nothing less than defiance.”

“Exactly. Defiance! A veto!” Mrs. Gilbert’s eyes were blazing now. “You’ve had your own way for twenty years; I’m going to have mine, for once. I’ve listened patiently to you, although it seems incredible that a man of your intelligence can be so narrow, so bigoted—but you’re honest, sincere! That’s the amazing thing about it. You’re an amazing man, Henry. So blind! And so—nasty!”

“Nasty!” Gilbert’s voice quivered.

“You’re the nastiest-minded man I ever knew. You proved it here, now. Dancing means nothing to you except physical contact, the rubbing of bodies! Music, rhythm, mirth, gayety—you can’t understand them: all you see in a dance is sexual stimulus. Thank God, the boys aren’t like you! Edith is sweet and clean and fragrant with youth. Dicky Young is a decent, healthy-minded lad. They’ve grown up together. You see them romping, laughing, and you take offense. Why? Because you see them through the eyes of a satyr. Oh, you’re clean enough in your body, but your mind is filthy! I suppose that’s why you’re a ‘reformer.’ You see enticement in that girl’s actions and lust in the boy’s. You’re blind to the lovely lines of an innocent girl’s figure; all you can see is the swell of her bosom. Your own daughterr. Faugh!”

“That’s enough!” Gilbert shouted.

“Oh no, it isn’t enough. You say I’m not a fit mother: I say you’re not a fit father. Neither is your sister Ella a fit woman to raise a girl—my girl. She’s like you. We’re going to understand matters once and for all, Henry. You’re not going to take Edith away from me. You crushed me, but I won’t let you crush her. You’ve done your best to strangle her, smother her, but you shan’t steal her youth and joyousness; you shan’t pull the wings off of her butterflies. Not while I live.”

“I—I have never been spoken to like this,” Gilbert stammered, in extreme agitation.

“I’m sure of that. Probably it is the first time you ever tried to snatch a child from its mother’s arms. Not that you wouldn’t do it, now that you make it your business to live other people’s lives for them. You’ve lived yours, without interference, and you’ve lived mine for me. But you’re not going to live Edith’s for her. She’s going to do that for herself.”

“Am I to understand that you propose to go on as you have been going—to encourage her in her wickedness and her rebellion? Do you propose to widen the breach between her and me?”

“I—don’t know what you’re to understand except that you shan’t take her away.” The speaker’s first flaming wrath had burned itself out, she was trembling weakly. “I don’t want to feel that there is any breach between you. I want her to love you. I want her to be happy and to realize the full promise of all that life holds out to her.”

“At least we are one in that.”

In some hesitation the mother continued: “She’s your child as well as mine, Henry. I must think of that. We must never have another scene like this—I’m not strong enough to stand it. I’ll do my best to have her respect your wishes—I’ve always done that in important matters—but you must do your share. You must realize that she’s no longer a child, but that she has a mind and a conscience of her own. Just because it isn’t exactly like yours is no sign that she’s willful or wicked. If only you could see that.”

“I, too, deeply regret this scene,” Gilbert said. “Your unyielding attitude shows me that I have a problem to meet—a problem which will require earnest thought and heart-felt prayer. We have arrived at a critical juncture, Alice; we must trust in Divine wisdom.” He sighed deeply and turned to go.

“Don’t try to take her away!” the wife warned him.

“There is a right road and there is One who will point it out,” he asserted, piously. “I shall appeal to Him and we must abide by His will.” With these words he went to his own room.

Now Gilbert, as a matter of fact, had not the slightest intention of leaving this matter entirely to God—it was something he considered himself capable of handling quite well—but he did feel the need of an excuse to end the interview with his wife without loss of dignity. He could not stomach defeat at her hands, and yet her positive refusal to even consider his demand left him high and dry, and for the moment at least he could think of nothing further to say or to do.

But no solution presented itself, even upon calmer consideration in his own chamber. It was not so easy to separate mother and daughter as it had seemed. His wife’s defiance had come as a disagreeable shock and he was unused to shocks. They angered him. He had always had his own way. What had come over Alice? He paced the floor in frowning preoccupation.

The inconsistency of her! To pretend that she was the aggrieved party! That was like a woman. He had made a mistake, perhaps, in broaching the subject so boldly instead of leading up to it more gradually and proving by actual evidence how demoralizing her influence had become. It was demoralizing and he had no intention of permitting it to continue. No, a thousand times no! But how to remove Edith from her mother’s malign influence was indeed a problem.

What a bitter tongue Alice had. She had called him “nasty”— a “nasty-minded man!” That was something he could never forget. Never! An outrageous remark. And so wickedly untrue. As if he were not the purest of men and the truest of husbands. Why, he had never been unfaithful to his marriage vows in word, in deed, or in thought, notwithstanding the fact that he and Alice had long since ceased to love each other or to be husband and wife except in name. A satyr! Oh, the calumny! Mr. Gilbert’s white beard quivered with indignation.

The more he pondered over Alice’s accusations, the more they rankled and the angrier he became. He was like that—given to nursing his wrongs and to inflaming his injuries. He decided at last that he must indeed turn to prayer, not to ask guidance, but to seek refuge from the turmoil within him. Prayer came easily to him and when he sought guidance in public he always knelt. When he was alone, however, he did not kneel; that suppliant attitude, like his deep, resonant chest tones, he reserved for use in the presence of an audience.

He seated himself now in his most comfortable overstuffed chair and closed his eyes. His appeal was sincere enough; earnestly and silently he asked God to show him a way by which he could humble his wife and overcome her opposition to his own will.

He was tired; it was pleasant thus to relax, but, after the first few moments, he could not concentrate wholly upon his task, for he kept thinking of what Alice had called him. A nasty-minded man! . . . A satyr was a wanton creature with the hairy ears of a goat. . . . He could not see, beneath the folds of his daughter’s sweater, the slim grace of a virgin figure, only the outlines of a woman’s bosom! What a coarse, what a beastly thing to say! Alice would repent that speech. And she had been so low-minded as to suggest the possibility of an unwise intimacy between him and Belle Galloway. Such lewdness! But Alice had always been embarrassingly frank about sex matters. Casual. Why, even when they were first married she had suffered no feeling of shame. She was fleshly. . . . And Edith had inherited something of that—that wantonness. What a contrast between women like Alice and Miss Galloway! Imagine Belle putting such a vile construction upon his remarks. . . . Imagine her behaving as if marriage and—and its relations were perfectly casual! She was a good, a modest woman. . . . Funny that she should refuse to leave Hopewell, even to accept a position of influence. Just because of him. She had a deep emotional nature—those dark smudges under her eyes testified to that—but she possessed the strength to repress it. Emotions of the grosser sort are designed to develop moral strength, powers of resistance. , . . He had never seen Belle in one of those thin sweater things that Edith wore, but he could fancy how well she would look. She was so mature, so fully developed—

Mr. Gilbert dozed off; sleep put an end to his moment of prayer.

He awoke refreshed and with the realization that during his religious abstraction a new thought had indeed come to him, a possible means of forcing his wife’s consent to his plans for Edith. It was dim, unformed; it seemed impractical at first, but the more he thought about it, the more promise it held. It would involve a trip to New York, the judicious expenditure of considerable money, even the straining of what he considered to be his code of morals, but the stake was worth all that, and more. Something had to be done to turn the feet of his daughter from the path she trod and to set them in the way of the Lord.