should have had a clear half,
which I haven't; so you have the best of it. And--I will not be
followed about, and pried after, and made generally uncomfortable by
any one."

"Who is prying after you?"

"You are."

"What do you mean, Cecil?" Haughtily.

"Just what I say. And, as I never so far forget myself as to call
_you_ by your Christian name without its prefix, I think you might
have the courtesy to address _me_ as Lady Stafford."

"Certainly, if you wish it."

"I do. Have you anything more to say?"

"Yes, more than----"

"Then pray defer it until to-morrow, as"--with a bare-faced attempt at
a yawn--"I really cannot sit up any longer. Good-night, Sir Penthony."

Sir Penthony puts the end of his long moustache into his mouth,--a sure
sign of irritation,--and declines to answer.

"Good-night," repeats her ladyship, blandly, going up the staircase,
with a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her lips, and feeling no
surprise that her polite little adieu receives no reply.

When she has reached the centre of the broad staircase she pauses, and,
leaning her white arms upon the banisters, looks down upon her husband,
standing irresolute and angry in the hall beneath.

"Sir Penthony," murmurs she; "Sir----" Here she hesitates for so long a
time that when at last the "Penthony" does come it sounds more familiar
and almost unconnected with the preceding word.

Stafford turns, and glances quickly up at her. She is dressed in some
soft-flowing gown of black, caught here and there with heavy bows and
bands of cream-color, that contrast admirably with her hair, soft skin,
her laughing eyes, and her pouting, rosy lips. In her hair, which she
wears low on her neck, is a black comb studded with pearls; there are a
few pearls round her neck, a few more in her small ears; she wears no
bracelets, only two narrow bands of black velvet caught with pearls,
that make her arms seem even rounder and whiter than they are.

"Good-night," she says, for the third time, nodding at him in a slow,
sweet fashion that has some grace or charm about it all its own, and
makes her at the instant ten times lovelier than she was before.

Stafford, coming forward until he stands right under her, gazes up at
her entranced like some modern Romeo. Indeed, there is something almost
theatrical about them as they linger, each waiting for the other to
speak,--he fond and impassioned, yet half angry too, she calm and
smiling, yet mutinous.