"I am,--and something more. You seem to forget that. Do you mean to answer my question?" "Certainly,--if I can. But do sit down, Sir Penthony. I am sure you must be tired, you are so dreadfully out of breath. Have you come just now, this moment, straight from Algiers? See, that little chair over there is so comfortable. All my gentlemen visitors adore that little chair. No? You won't sit down? Well----" "Are you in the habit of receiving men so early?" "I assure you," says Cecil, raising her brows with a gentle air of martyrdom, and making a very melancholy gesture with one hand, "I hardly know the hour I don't receive them. I am absolutely persecuted by my friends. They _will_ come. No matter how disagreeable it may be to me, they arrive just at any hour that best suits them. And I am so good-natured I cannot bring myself to say 'Not at home.'" "You brought yourself to say it this morning." "Ah, yes. But that was because I was engaged on very particular business." "What business?" "I am sorry I cannot tell you." "You shall, Cecil. I will not leave this house until I get an answer. I am your husband. I have the right to demand it." "You forget our little arrangement. I acknowledge no husband," says Cecil, with just one flash from her violet eyes. "Do you refuse to answer me?" "I do," replies she, emphatically. "Then I shall stay here until you alter your mind," says Sir Penthony, with an air of determination, settling himself with what in a low class of men would have been a bang, in the largest arm-chair the room contains. With an unmoved countenance Lady Stafford rises and rings the bell. Dead silence. Then the door opens, and a rather elderly servant appears upon the threshold. "Martin, Sir Penthony will lunch here," says Cecil, calmly. "And--stay, Martin. Do you think it likely you will dine, Sir Penthony?" "I do think it likely," replies he, with as much grimness as etiquette will permit before the servant. "Sir Penthony thinks it likely he will dine, Martin. Let cook know. And--can I order you anything you would specially prefer?" "Thank you, nothing. Pray give yourself no trouble on my account." "It would be a pleasure,--the more so that it is so rare. Stay yet a moment, Martin. May I order you a bed, Sir Penthony?" "I am not sure. I will let you know later on," replies Stafford, who, to his rage and disgust, finds himself inwardly convulsed with laughter. "That will do, Martin," says her ladyship, with the utmost _bonhommie_. And Martin retires. As the door closes, the combatants regard each other steadily for a full minute, and then they both roar. "You are the greatest little wretch," says Sir Penthony, going over to her and taking both her hands, "it has ever been my misfortune to meet with. I am laughing now against my will,--remember that. I am in a frantic rage. Will you tell me what all that scene between you and Luttrell was about? If you don't I shall go straight and ask him."