"Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply, coughed as only a Dutchman can cough, and raising his hand from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as the Master. Suppose her father turned her out of doors! She did not care, she meant to go.
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