It was a curious ashen-white, and from beneath drawn brows his hawk's eyes seemed positively to blaze at her.
"Roger," she stammered, "what--what is it ?" "Is it true ?" he demanded, ignoring her halting question, and fixing her with a glance that seemed to penetrate right through her.
"Is--is what true ?" she faltered.
"Is it true--what Isobel said--that you look down on us because we're countrified, that you're still hankering after that precious artistic crew of yours in London ?" He spoke violently--so violently that it roused Nan's spirit.

She turned away from him.
"Don't be so absurd, Roger," she said contemptuously.

"Isobel was only joking.

It was very silly of her, but it's sillier still for you to take any notice of what she said." "She was _not_ joking.

You've shown it clearly enough--ever since you came here--that you're dissatisfied--bored! Do you suppose I haven't seen it?
I'm not blind! And I won't stand it! If your music is going to come between us, I'll smash the piano--" "Roger! You ridiculous person!" She was smiling now.