Anna laughed softly.
“You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. I think not, Annabel. You are welcome to proclaim yourself ‘Alcide’ if you will. I would even make over my engagement to you, if Mr. Earles would permit. But I should certainly want to be rid of Mr. Montague Hill, and I do not think that under those circumstances I should be long about it.”
Annabel sank suddenly into a chair. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs.
“Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. But oh, how weary I am! I know. If only—Anna, tell me,” she broke off suddenly, “how did you get to know Mr. Ennison?”
“He spoke to me, thinking that I was you,” Anna answered. “I liked him, and I never undeceived him.”
“And he sat at my table,” Annabel said bitterly, “and yet he did not know me.”
Anna glanced up.
“You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks.”
“For the others,” Annabel said tearfully, “that is well enough. But for him——”
Something in her sister’s tone startled Anna. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. When she tried to speak she found it difficult. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off.