Agatha wondered for the moment what wrong there was which made her husband look so pained and humbled. But she forbore to ask questions, and again turned her attention to the house.
“It must have been a charming nest for an old bachelor, and I would have liked it very much myself had I been an old maid. But it would never do for us, you know.”
Nathanael smiled, so loth to contradict her, or thwart her pretty ways.
“Don't you see, Miss Valery;” Agatha continued, gathering apprehensions from his silence, smiling though it was—“Don't you see how different the cases are? This little house might do very well for Mr. Wilson, but then if my husband takes his place as your steward, it is only for amusement. We are rich people, you know.”
“My poor child!” began Anne Valery, looking regretfully, nay, reproachfully at Mr. Harper. But he whispered as he passed:
“Not yet, Anne—for my father's sake—the whole family's—nay, her own. Not just yet!”
Such was his earnestness, such his air of command, that, for the second time, Anne, looking in his face and reading the old likeness there—obeyed him.
Agatha, wondering, uncomfortable, recommenced what she jestingly called “her little rebellion.” “I see, Mr. Harper, your heart is inclining to this place, though why or wherefore I cannot tell. But do incline it back again! We must have the other house—that delicious Honeywood.”
“My dear little wife! Nobody could live at Honeywood under a thousand a year.”
“Well, and have we not that? I am sure I thought I had more money than ever I could do with. How much have I?”