page before him.

"And give as an excuse that you are too staunch a Tory to approve of
such an innovation as the waltz?"

"You may give any excuse that you consider suitable," he returned with
unruffled composure.

"I know of none," she answered, with a quick vehemence that trembled on
the edge of rebellion.

Sir Roland turned very slowly in his chair and regarded the delicate
outline of his wife's figure against the window-frame.

"Then, my dear," he said very deliberately, "let me recommend you once
more to have recourse to your ever romantic imagination!"

She quivered, and clenched her hands, as if goaded beyond endurance.
"You do not treat me fairly," she murmured under her breath.

Sir Roland continued to look at her with the air of a naturalist
examining an interesting specimen of his cult. He said nothing till,
driven by his scrutiny, she turned and faced him.

"What is your complaint?" he asked then.

She hesitated for an instant. There was doubt--even a hint of
fear--upon her beautiful face. Then, with a certain recklessness, she
spoke: