He pressed a kiss upon her brow, and noticed that it was moist and cold.
“The gentleman is here, Sir Harold,” Stimson announced, adding, in an undertone: “It is Viscount Rivington, sir.”
Annesley’s face flushed with fierce resentment. What business had the viscount with him? He paused, irresolute, then said, suddenly, “I will see him.”
With a fond glance of assurance toward Theresa, he stepped into the anteroom beyond, softly closing the door of the dining-room behind him.
“I have no doubt that you are somewhat surprised to see me here, Sir Harold Annesley,” Rivington said, in his smooth, bland tones, rising quickly from a seat in the corner next to the door. “You will not take my hand? Well, I cannot help it if you are determined to be unfriendly. I came to congratulate you upon your recent marriage, and the recovery of your memory, though I cannot say that either event has made you particularly robust or joyful in appearance!”
“What is your business with me?” Annesley demanded, steadily.
“I came as a friend—an old acquaintance,” Rivington said.
“I never recognized you as a friend, and I have no desire for your acquaintance, viscount,” was the cold reply. “Your impertinence would be amusing if it were not irritating.”
Rivington laughed sneeringly.
“Well, if you will not accept my friendship, I cannot help it,” he said. “I hate to be bad friends with any one.”