She laughs slightly, and, pulling out the fastenings of her hair, lets the rippling mass fall over her shoulders. Roland used to admire it so much in the days gone by, and say it was the only gold he cared to possess. Has she any hope that he will recall his former feelings at the sight of her loosely falling locks? If so, she is mistaken, for he only remarks coldly,—
‘I must beg you not to turn my room into a dressing-room. Go and put your hair up tidily. I hate to find it amongst my papers.’
‘I believe you hate everything except your own comfort,’ she replies. ‘You’re the most selfish man I ever came across.’
‘Perhaps so! But as long as this house belongs to me, you’ll be good enough to keep your opinions to yourself. If I can’t have comfort when I come home, I will at least have peace.’
‘And much peace I get, day or night.’
‘It is by your own mismanagement if you do not.’
‘How do you make that out? Has your want of money anything to do with my mismanagement? Have the children anything to do with it? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Ought I?’ he returns, biting his lip. ‘Then, perhaps, you’ll be glad to hear that I have applied for a foreign appointment that will take me out to India, or the Brazils, for the remainder of my life.’
‘Oh, Roland!’ she cries, catching her breath; ‘but not to leave us?’