“Thank you, Aubrey. Good-night,” said she, in a quavering voice, without looking up.
“Good-night, darling!” he whispered back, managing to give one last despairing squeeze to the little fingers before she shut the door.
He went home to his lodgings utterly bewildered, but resolved to get from her the next day some explanation of her extraordinary treatment of his advances. She had certainly understood him. She had at first repelled, then encouraged him. He had seen in her eyes the very look he had wished to call up in them, and the next minute it had changed to an expression of plaintive misery and regret which had chilled his hopes even as they rose.
But the next day, when he called upon her, he was told Miss Langton was not well, and could not see any one. He knew very well that she was only putting him off, and he made up his mind that at night she should not escape him. She took care however not to be caught alone, and her share in the performance was nearly over before Aubrey, always on the watch, saw Miss Montrose, who had been standing at the side with her, go upon the scene at her cue and leave Annie by herself at last. Then she heard his voice behind her; she could not escape now, for before long she would hear her own cue, and must be on the watch for it.
“Good-evening, Miss Langton.”
“Oh, good-evening, Mr. Cooke!” She gave him her hand; it was trembling a little, and she did not look up into his face.
“I have not had an opportunity of speaking to you before. You will let me see you home?”
“Not to-night; I have promised to go to supper with Miss Norris.”
“You are putting me off, I see. Is it fair, Annie? Is it right? Am I not worth an answer?”
“An answer to what?”