She had taught this, not merely by example and casual anecdote, but by precepts as solemnly expounded as bible-texts.  “Remember, my dear, a woman with a husband is like a lion-tamer with a whip!” And the old lady would explain what a hard and dangerous life was lived by lion-tamers, how their safety depended upon life-long distrustfulness of the creatures over whom they ruled.  She would tell stories of the rending and maiming of luckless ones, who had forgotten for a brief moment the nature of the male animal!  “Yes, my dear,” she would say, “believe in love; but let the man believe first!” Her maxims never sinned by verbosity.

The end of all this was not merely food and shelter, a home and children, it was the supremacy of a sex, its ability to shape life to its whim.  By means of this magic “charm”—­a sort of perpetual individual sex-strike—­a woman turned her handicaps into advantages and her chains into ornaments; she made herself a rare and wonderful creature, up to whom men gazed in awe.  It was “romantic love,” but preserved throughout life, instead of ceasing with courtship.

All the Castleman women understood these arts, and employed them.  There was Aunt Nannie, when she cracked her whip the dear old bishop-lion would jump as if he had been shot!  Did not the whole State know the story of how once he had been called upon at a banquet and had risen and remarked:  “Ladies and gentlemen, I had intended to make a speech to you this evening, but I see that my wife is present, so I must beg you to excuse me.”  The audience roared, and Aunt Nannie was furious, but poor dear Bishop Chilton had spoken but the literal truth, that he could not spread the wings of his eloquence in the presence of his “better half.”

And with Major Castleman, though it seemed different, it was really the same.  Sylvia’s mother had let herself get stout—­which seemed a dangerous mark of confidence in the male animal.  But the major was fifteen years older than his wife, and she had a weak heart with which to intimidate him.  Now and then the wilfulness of Castleman Lysle would become unendurable in the house, and his father would seize him and turn him over his knee.  His screams would bring “Miss Margaret” flying to the rescue:  “Major Castleman, how dare you spank one of my children?” And she would seize the boy and march off in terrible haughtiness, and lock herself and her child in her room, and for hours afterwards the poor major would wander about the house, suffering the lonelines of the guilty soul.  You would hear him tapping gently at his lady’s door.  “Honey!  Honey!  Are you mad with me?” “Major Castleman,” the stately answer would come, “will you oblige me by leaving one room in this house to which I may retire?”