There was a look in the woman's eyes at that moment not pleasant to see.
In fact, even he recoiled from it in evident annoyance and alarm.
This woman had long been his simple tool, doing many things that at one time she would have shrunk from in horror and loathing. Andrew Barkswell had dragged her down to his own level, and was even now meditating her complete destruction. He had never scorned her, or told the truth, that she was no longer loved. He understood her nature too well. He pretended the most extravagant affection at times, and it was thus that he held her confidence, in spite of the facts that bade her hate and despise him.
"No, Iris; you are mistaken," said the man, in answer to the last words of his wife. "I have never harmed the girl, nor do I wish to do so. I hope you won't borrow any trouble over her."
"I ought not to, I suppose."
And then followed a bitter laugh.
"If you had done as I wished, and remained in Rochester, it would have been much better."
"Do you think so?"
"Certainly I do."
"You wish me to return?"
"I do."