Two days after this momentous¹ combination of her enemies, Berny was sitting in the parlor² of her flat, writing a letter. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and she had just dressed herself for her daily jaunt⁴ down town, where she spent an hour or two looking into the shop windows, pricing articles of apparel, taking a glass of soda⁵ water, and stopping for chats with acquaintances under awnings⁶ and in open doorways⁷. Her life was exceedingly barren of occupation and companionship. When she had married, she had dropped all work save such as seemed to her fitting for the wife of a rich man. Outside her sisters she had no friends. She knew the wives of several of the bank officials and to them, as representing a rise in the social scale, she clung hopefully. The letter she was now writing was to one of them who had taken a sick child to the country.  
She had finished it, and was inscribing⁹ her signature, when a ring at the bell caught her[249] ear. She raised her head listening, and then bent¹⁰ it again over the letter. Visitors were too rare at the Sacramento Street flat for her to cherish any delusive¹¹ hopes. Writing the address in her best hand, she did not hear a foot ascending¹² the stairs, nor know that it actually was a visitor, till a tap on the door-post of the room made her turn and ejaculate a startled “Come in!” The door that led from the parlor to the hall had been removed, and a bamboo portière hung in the opening. A large masculine hand thrust apart the hanging strands¹³, and Bill Cannon¹⁴, hat in hand, confident and yet apologetic, entered the room.
 
He had been surprised when he had seen how small and unpretentious was the home of Con¹⁵ Ryan’s only son. He was more than ever surprised when the Chinaman, with the unveiled impudence¹⁶ of those domestics when the employes of masters they do not like, had waved his proffered¹⁷ card aside, and with a jerk of his head motioned him forward to a doorway⁸ at the end of the passage. Now, on entering, he took in, in an impressionistic sweep, the overcrowded, vulgar garishness¹⁸ of the little room, saturated¹⁹ with the perfume of scents²⁰ and sachets, and seeming to be the fitting frame for the woman who rose from a seat by the desk.
 
She looked at him inquiringly with something of wariness²¹ and distrust in her face. She was the[250] last of the ascending scale of surprises he had encountered, for she was altogether better-looking, more a person to be reckoned with, than he had expected. His quick eye, trained to read human nature, recognized the steely determination of this woman before she spoke²², saw it in the level scrutiny²³ of her eyes, in the decision of her close mouth. He felt a sensation, oft experienced and keenly pleasurable, of gathering²⁴ himself together for effort. It was the instinct of an old warrior²⁵ who loves the fray²⁶.
 
Berny, on her side, knew him at the first glance, and her sensations were those of disturbance²⁷ and uneasiness. She remembered him to be a friend of the Ryans’, and she had arrived at the stage when any friend of the Ryans’ was an enemy of hers. She was instantly in arms and on the defensive²⁸. Rose had not yet taken shape in her mind as a new, menacing force conniving²⁹ against her. Besides, she had no idea that Rose reciprocated³⁰ the sentiment that Dominick cherished for her. Her discovery had only made her certain that Dominick loved another woman. But this had shaken her confidence in everything, and she looked at the old man guardedly, ready for an attack and bracing³¹ herself to meet it.
 
“You’ll pardon this intrusion, won’t you?” he said in a deep, friendly voice, and with a manner of cordial urbanity. “I tried to do it correctly, but the Chinaman had other designs.[251] It was he who frustrated³² me. Here’s the card I wanted him to take to you.”
 
He approached her, holding out a card which she took, still unsmiling, and glanced at. Her instinct of dissimulation³³ was strong, and, uneasy as she was, she pretended to read the name, not wanting him to see that she already knew him.
 
“Mr. William G. Cannon,” she read, and then looked up at him and made a slight inclination³⁴ of her head as she had seen actresses do on the stage. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Cannon?” she added, and completed the impressiveness of her greeting by a gesture, which also suggested a histrionic origin, toward an adjacent chair.
 
He backed toward the chair, pulling it out into the unencumbered space in the middle of the floor, his movements deliberate and full of design, as if he felt comfortably at home. Subsiding³⁵ into the seat, which had arms and was rather cramped³⁶ for his large bulk, he laid his hat among the knick-knacks of a near-by table and said smilingly,
 
“Now, let me make my apologies for coming. In the first place, I’m an old man. We’ve got a few privileges to compensate³⁷ us for the loss of so much that’s good. Don’t you think that’s fair, Mrs. Ryan?”
 
Berny liked him. There was something so easy and affable in his manner, something that made her feel he would never censure³⁸ her for her past, or, in fact, think about it at all. But she was[252] still on her guard, though the embarrassment³⁹ she had felt on his entrance disappeared.
 
“I don’t know,” she said vaguely⁴⁰. “I don’t know why an old man should have more privileges than a young one.”
 
“But you do know,” he said quickly, and giving a short, jolly laugh, “that an old man who’s known your husband all his life can have the privilege of calling on you without an introduction. You’ll admit that, won’t you?”
 
He leaned out of the narrow chair, his broad face creased⁴¹ with a good-humored smile, and his eyes, keen and light-colored, sharp on hers. Berny felt doubtful as to whether she liked him so much. She, too, had a large experience of men, and the hard intelligence of the eyes in the laughing face made her more than ever on the defensive.
 
“I’m sure I’m very glad you came,” she said politely; “any friend of Dominick’s is welcome here.”
 
“I’ve been that for a good many years. My friendship with the Ryans goes back to the days before Dominick was born. I knew Con and Delia well in the old times in Virginia when we were all young there together, all young, and strong, and poor. I’ve known Dominick since he was a baby, though I haven’t seen much of him of late years.”
 
“Nor of his wife either,” Berny was going to[253] say, but she checked herself and substituted, “Is that so?” a comment which seemed to her to have the advantages of being at once dignified⁴² and elegantly non-committal.
 
“Yes, I knew Con when he was working on a prospect⁴³ of his own called the Mamie R at Gold Hill. I was a miner on the Royal Charles close by on steady wages. Con was in for himself. He was playing it in pretty hard luck. If it hadn’t been for his wife he couldn’t have hung on as long as he did. She was a fine, husky, Irish girl, strong as a man; and the washing she used to do on the back porch of the shanty⁴⁴ kept them.”
 
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” said Berny, much interested, and hoping that her visitor would continue to indulge in further reminiscences of Mrs. Ryan’s lowly beginnings.
 
“That was forty-five years ago,” he went on, “and the fellows that were on top then are underneath⁴⁵ now, and vice⁴⁶ versa. But Delia Ryan’s just about the same. There’s no shifting, or changing, or not knowing her own mind about her. She’s one of the strongest women in California; one of the biggest women anywhere.”
 
This was not what Berny had expected, and was more than she could subscribe⁴⁷ to. The distinguished⁴⁸ position of her guest made her want to be polite, but there was a limit to her powers of diplomatic agreement. A silver blotter[254] stood on the desk, and she took it up and began absently rolling it back and forth⁴⁹ over her letter.
 
“She seems to be a great friend of yours?” she said, watching the blotter with lowered eyes.
 
“She’s all that,” he answered heartily⁵⁰. “One of the greatest. She is to any one who knows her well. She’s a big nature; nothing picayune or small about her. A true friend and a fair enemy. She’s the most generous woman I ever knew.”
 
“We haven’t seen much of her generosity,” said Berny. Her words did not come with suddenness, but slowly, with a measured and biting deliberation.
 
“You’ve got your chance to see it now,” answered the old man.
 
Berny looked at him, a side glance from the corner of one long, dark eye. Her face was perfectly⁵¹ grave and the eyes fixed⁵² on him were imbued⁵³ with a considering, apprehensive⁵⁴ expectancy⁵⁵. He looked very large, squeezed into the small chair, but he seemed oblivious⁵⁶ to the fact that there was anything ridiculous in his appearance, as well as to his own discomfort⁵⁷. The easy good-humor had gone from his face. It was alert, shrewd, and eagerly interested. Berny knew now that he had not come to pay his respects to Dominick’s wife. A sensation of internal trembling began to possess her and the color deepened in her face.
 
“How have I got my chance?” she said. “I[255] guess if you know the Ryans so well you must know that they won’t have anything to do with me.”
 
“They’ll have a good deal to do with you if you’ll let them,” he answered.
 
There was a momentary⁵⁸ pause, during which—now conscious of battle and menace—Berny strove to control her rising excitement and keep her head cool. He watched her with a glance which had the boring penetration⁵⁹ of a gimlet.
 
“That’s funny,” she said, “not wanting to speak to me for two years and then all of a sudden wanting to have a good deal to do with me. It’s a sort of lightning-change act, like you see at the Orpheum. I guess I’d understand it better if I knew more about it.”
 
“Then I’ll tell you. Will you let me speak frankly⁶⁰, Mrs. Ryan? Have I got your permission to go right ahead and talk the plain talk that’s the only way a plain man knows?”
 
“Yes,” said Berny. “Go right ahead.”
 
He looked at the carpet for a considering moment, then raised his eyes and, gazing into hers with steady directness, said,
 
“It wouldn’t be fair if I pretended not to know that you and your husband’s family are unfriendly. I know it, and that they have, as you say, refused to know you. They’ve not liked the marriage; that’s the long and the short of it.”
 
“And what right have they got—” began Berny,[256] raising her head with a movement of war, and staring belligerently⁶¹ at him. He silenced her with a lifted hand:
 
“Don’t let’s go into that. Don’t let’s bother ourselves with the rights and wrongs of the matter. We could talk all afternoon and be just where we were at the beginning. Let’s have it understood that our attitude in this is businesslike and impersonal⁶². They don’t like the marriage—that’s admitted. They’ve refused to know you—that’s admitted. And let us admit, for the sake of the argument, that they’ve put you in a damned disagreeable position.”
 
Berny, sitting stiffly erect⁶³, all in a quiver of nerves, anger, and uncertainty⁶⁴, had her eyes fixed on him in a glare of questioning.
 
“That’s all true,” she said grimly. “That’s a statement I’ll not challenge.”
 
“Then we’ll agree that your position is disagreeable, and that it’s been made so by the antagonism⁶⁵ of your husband’s family. Now, Mrs. Ryan, let me tell you something that maybe you don’t understand. You’re never going to conquer or soften⁶⁶ your mother-in-law. I don’t know anything about it, but perhaps I can make a guess. You’ve thought you’d win her over, that you’d married her son and made him a good wife and that some day she’d acknowledge that and open her doors and invite you in. My dear young lady, just give up building those castles in the air.[257] There’s nothing in them. You don’t know Delia Ryan. She’ll never bend and the one thing that’ll break her is death. She’s got no hard feelings against you except as her son’s wife. That’s the thing she’ll never forgive you for. I’m not saying it’s not pretty tough on you. I’m just stating a fact. What I do say is that she’s never going to be any different about it. She’s started on her course, and she’s going to go straight along on the same route till she comes to the place where we’ve all got to jump off.”
 
At the commencement of this speech, a surge of words had boiled up within Berny. Now as he stopped she leaned toward him and the words burst out of her lips.
 
“And what right has she got to act that way, I’d like to know? What’s she got against me? What’s wrong with me? Dominick Ryan married me of his own free will. He chose me and he was of age. I’d been a typewriter in the Merchants and Mechanics Trust Company, honestly earning my living. Is that what she don’t like about me? I might have got my living another way, a good sight easier and pleasanter, but I wasn’t that kind. Maybe she didn’t like a decent working-girl for her son’s wife? And what was she to kick? Didn’t you just say now she washed for the miners in Virginia? Didn’t she used to keep a two-room grocery at Shasta? I don’t see that there’s anything so darned aristocratic about that. There were no[258] more diamond tiaras and crests⁶⁷ on the harness in her early days than there are in mine. She’s forgetting old times. You can just tell her I’m not.”
 
She came to a breathless close, her body bent forward, her dark eyes burning with rage and excitement. This suddenly sank down, chilled, and, as it were, abashed⁶⁸ by the aspect of her listener, who was sitting motionless in his chair, his hands clasped over the curving front of his torso, his chin sunk on his collar, and his eyes fixed upon her with a look of calm,

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