He hesitated—she fancied it was at the thoughtless “I,” and generously changed the expression.
“How much have we?”
“Enough—I will make it enough—to keep you from wanting anything, and give you all the luxuries to which you were born. But not enough to warrant us in living at Honeywood. I cannot do it—not even for your sake, Agatha.”
“I do not see the matter as you do.”
“You cannot, dear! I know that. But in this one thing—when, on various accounts, I can judge better than she can—will not my wife trust me?”
And Anne Valery's glance seemed to echo, “Trust him.”
Agatha, tried to the utmost of her small stock of patience, grew more bitter than she could have believed it possible to be with her husband and Anne Valery.
“You expect too much,” she said, sharply. “I cannot trust, even though I may be compelled to obey.”
Mr. Harper turned round anxiously. “Agatha, what must—what can I do? No,” he muttered to himself, “I can do nothing.” He walked to the window, and stood looking out mutely on the little garden—tiny, but so pretty, with its green verandah, its semicircle of arbutus trees serving as a frame to the hilly landscape beyond, its one wavy acacia, woodbine-clasped, at the foot of which a robin-redbreast was hopping and singing over the few fallen leaves.
While they all thus stood, there came a light foot and a flutter of draperies to the door.