At the close of the second song, he leaned his elbow on the top of the instrument, and stood so, searching her face with such discomposing directness that a burning wave of colour submerged her, and she dropped her eyes.
"I don't believe you ever criticised me till to-night, Major Desmond," she murmured, striking soft chords at random with her left hand.
"Not since I really came to know you," he answered in the same tone.
"You have never given me cause."
"Well—I don't like it."
"Few of us do. You prefer indiscriminate admiration?"
The flush deepened, but she looked up.
"I prefer your approval to your disapproval," she said, still moving her hand over the notes. "But I have always gone my own way; and I warn you that nothing rouses the devil in me like being scolded or dictated to."
"My dear Quita, I have no right nor wish to do either. I only want to ask you a question or two—if I may?"
"What about?"
"Your husband. He won't consult Courtenay; and I am getting anxious. Would you mind telling me about how much sleep he has had this last week?"