"Are you ready to come home?" he asked in a cold, level voice. Then she looked up in nervous appeal. "Oh, George, there are three more dances besides the extras on the programme!" She turned as though for sympathy and support to the man who sat silent at her side, toying with her fan. He only smiled inscrutably, and his eyes held the expression of one looking on at a comedy. Captain Coventry stood rigid; his hands were clenched, his face hard and set. "It is time for us to go home," he said, with a faint though unmistakable emphasis on the pronoun. She moved a small, satin-shod foot impatiently. "Oh, do let us stay a little longer," she protested; "nobody is going yet." "_We_ are," said her husband. "Why?" she demanded in desperate defiance. Then she looked frightened, and rose with reluctance from her seat. For a moment she glanced from one man to the other, disconcerted because Mr. Kennard had said nothing, had not asserted his claim to the dances that still were his on her programme. Suddenly she felt helpless, deserted, indignant. Mr. Kennard must think she was not her own mistress, that she could not do as she chose, that she allowed herself to be treated like a child. It was insufferable! Why couldn't George trust her? He ought to be glad to see her receiving admiration and attention. It was odious of him to place her in such a false and unpleasant position. But while that hard, cruel look remained in his eyes she dared not defy him. She would have to obey like a slave at the moment, though she vowed to herself that she would demand an apology once they were alone. She rose with an air of offended pride, and held out her hand for her fan. Kennard gave it to her with a bow, and a suppressed smile on his face that made Coventry long to knock him down. They bade each other formal good-nights, and Rafella stalked in the direction of the cloakroom, her head held high, her husband following her close.