"Hang Glenwilliam!" Sir Wilfrid's tone was brusque. "I want to talk about Marcia!"
Lady Coryston turned slowly round upon him.
"What's wrong with Marcia? I see nothing to talk about."
"Wrong! You unnatural woman! I want to know what you feel about it. Do you really like the young man? Do you think he's good enough for her?"
"Certainly I like him. A very well disposed fellow. I hope he'll manage her properly. But if you want to know what I think of his family"—she dropped her voice—"I can only say that although their virtues no doubt are legion, the atmosphere of this house is to me positively stifling. You feel it as you cross the threshold. It is an atmosphere of sheer tyranny! What on earth do they mean by bundling us into chapel like that?"
"Tyranny! You call it tyranny!" Sir Wilfrid's eyes danced.
"Certainly," said Lady Coryston, stiffly. "What else should I call it? One's soul is not one's own."
Sir Wilfrid settled down on the sofa beside her, and devoted himself to drawing her out. Satan rebuking sin was a spectacle of which he never tired, and the situation was the more amusing because he happened to have spent the morning in remonstrating with her—to no purpose whatever—on the manner in which she was treating her eldest son.