he scanned the
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:

"I have been accustomed to freedom of action all my life. I never
dreamed, when I married you, that I should be called upon to sacrifice
this."

Her voice quivered. She would not meet his eyes. Sir Roland sat and
passively regarded her. His face expressed no more than a detached and
waning interest.

"I am sorry," he said finally, "that the romance of your marriage has
ceased to attract you. But I was not aware that its hold upon you was
ever very strong."

Lady Brooke made a quick movement, and broke into a light laugh.

"It certainly did not fall upon very fruitful ground," she said. "It is
scarcely surprising that it did not flourish."

Sir Roland made no response. The interest had faded entirely from his
face. He looked supremely bored.

Lady Brooke moved towards the door.

"It seems to be your pleasure to thwart me at every turn," she said. "A
labourer's wife has more variety in her existence than I."

"Infinitely more," said Sir Roland, returning to his paper. "A
labourer's wife, my dear, has an occasional beating to chasten her
spirit, and she is considerably the better for it."

His wife stood still, very erect and queenly.

"Not only the better, but the happier," she said very bitterly. "Even a
dog would rather be beaten than kicked to one side."

Sir Roland lowered his paper again with startling suddenness.

"Is that your