Still he did not speak. Finally the storm broke.

"What I have to say to you is this: I'm sick of this wholesale giving
of dinners."

Alice let go her breath. After all, it was not what was uppermost in
her mind.

"Ah! So that's it," she returned.

"That's a part of it," he cried, "but not all."

"And the other part?" she asked, her nervousness returning.

"I'll come to that later," said her husband, with an accent on the
last word. "It is necessary that I should begin at the beginning."

"Go on," she murmured nervously, gazing absently into the fire, her
mind at work, her fears suddenly aroused. For the first time its
wavering light seemed restful. "Go on--I'm listening."

"The first part is that I'm sick of these dinners. I've told you so
before, and yet you had the impertinence to-night to give another and
not say a word to me about it." The voice had a cold, incisive note in
it--the touch of steel to warm flesh.

"Impertinence! Your ideas of hospitality, Sam, are peculiar." Any
topic was better than the one she feared.

"Hospitality!" he retorted hotly. "Do you call it hospitality to