As for poverty--one would certainly have enough to do to run a house on a few hundreds a year, but though viewed generally the prospect sounded picturesque, a definite narrowing down to a comparison with one of the many Chumley homesteads, brought a quick shudder of distaste. The narrow rooms, the inferior servants, the infinitesimal gardens,-- Cassandra thrust out her hands in horror of the thought, and laughed a soft, full-throated laugh. "If I am bound to be dissatisfied, let me at least have room to be dissatisfied in! I could bear being stinted in almost anything rather than _space_. If Bernard loses his money, we'll go abroad and live on a prairie,--anything rather than a stifling villa." She turned her head as the door opened, and her husband entered, and crossed the room to a bureau in the far corner. He wore the usual tweed suit, the Norfolk jacket accentuating his increasing width, the loose knickerbockers revealing large, well-shaped legs. His skin was tanned to a rich brown, his eyes were a clear hard blue, his teeth strong and white, his moustache was cut in a straight harsh line along the upper lip. His cool gaze included his wife with the rest of the furnishings, but he gave no acknowledgment of her presence; not a flicker of expression passed over his face. There came to Cassandra suddenly, irrepressibly, the necessity of shocking him into life. She was not a woman who indulged in scenes; it came naturally to her to hide her feelings, and act a part before the world. If Bernard had not entered at just that psychological moment, if he had looked one bit less sleek, and satisfied, and dense, she could have gone on acting, as she had done for years past; as it was, a desire for expression rose with giant force, and would not be gainsaid. Very well! So be it. For once she would speak out, and Bernard should hear. She had an acute, a devastating curiosity to hear what he would say. "Bernard, are you busy? I want to speak to you." He turned his head. The clear tints of his skin looked startlingly healthy as seen in the light of the great open window. "All right! Fire ahead." "Bernard, do you love me?" "Good Lord!" The utter stupefaction on Raynor's face proved that this was the last of all questions which he had expected to hear. He came across the room, and stood staring down into his wife's face. "What the dickens is up?" "Nothing is up. I asked you a simple question. What should be up?" "I thought you'd taken offence at something I'd done!" "You have done nothing in the least unusual that I know of. I rather wish you had. _Do_ you, Bernard?" "Do I what?" "You know quite well, but I'll ask you again, if you prefer it. Do you love me, Bernard?" The man's ruddy face took a deeper tinge. "I say, Cass, what rot is this? That was settled and done with years ago. I married you. You're my wife. If you are not sure of me by this time, you never will be." "You are quite sure of yourself?"