The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. "'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. Besides—there is Sir John. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. And afterwards! Sir John drew his cigar from his lips, and looked upwards where the white-lights flashed strangely amongst the deep cool green of the lime-trees. And look, again, at the women one finds letting lodgings.
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