“No.”
“Stretch yourself out on the sofa, and let me sit beside you. There—are you quite comfortable?”
“Ah, yes,” she said, and thought for the hundredth time how sweet it was to have some one to take care of her.
“Now, my wife, listen! You seemed to long for that cottage very much, and you shall have it. Nay, you ought, because at present you are the rich lady; while I, so long as I remain in England, receive none of my salary from Montreal, and am, comparatively speaking, poor. In fact, nothing but that very secondary character, Agatha's Husband.'”
Though he laughed, there was a little jarring tone in this confession; but Agatha was too simple to notice it. He continued quickly,
“Nevertheless, this question is only temporary; I shall be quite your equal in Canada.”
“In Canada!” she echoed dolefully. “Oh, surely—surely we need not go?”
“Are you in earnest, Agatha?”
“I am indeed,” said she, gathering up courage to speak to him of what ever since her marriage had been growing an inexpressible dread.
“Why so?”