Her husband was silent.
Gradually the blush of enthusiasm deepened into that of annoyance—real anger. “Mr. Harper, I wait until you answer me.”
As she turned away, Nathanael looked after her. Such a flood of tenderness, reverence, sorrow, passion, rarely swept over a human face.
Then he rose, paced up the room in his usual fashion, and down again; pausing once at the window (a strange thing for him to notice just then) to let out a brown bee that, having come in for shelter from the rain, wanted to go out again with the sunshine. At last he came to Agatha's side.
“My dear wife, it grieves me to pain you by a refusal—grieves me more than you can tell; but the plan you propose is utterly impracticable.”
“Indeed!” Her colour flashed, darkened of a stormy red, and paled. She was exercising very great self-restraint.
“I will ask less,” she resumed, bitterly. “I had forgotten the extreme prudence of your character. Give me just what you think is sufficient for charity.” And her lip tried not to curl—her heart tried not to despise her husband.
Nathanael gave no answer.
“Mr. Harper, three—four times lately you have denied me what I asked. Thrice it was merely my own pleasure—which I relinquished. This time it is a matter of principle, and I will not yield. Will you—since I have made you master of my fortune—will you allow me enough out of it for my own slight gratification? That at least is but justice.”
“Justice!” echoed Nathanael, his features sinking gradually into the rigidity they sometimes wore—a warning of how much the gentleness of his nature could bear.