“A fine lot of study you get through, I have no doubt! You were studying very hard when I came in, weren’t you?”
“Now look here, Harry; you are absurdly unreasonable,” said Annie, wearily. “Of course William and I don’t sulk through a long morning’s work, as if I were a snuffy old professor of fifty who didn’t care a straw about his pupil except as a mere learning-machine. I couldn’t care for William more if he were really my brother. You never used to complain when he and I were out in the fields and woods together all day long. He was my constant companion when I was very miserable and lonely; and am I to snub and sit upon him, now that he has taken to reading so that he may be more of a companion to me than ever?”
“What do you want with his companionship? I can’t think what you can see in a great, clumsy gawk like that. He isn’t even clever.”
“He is good-tempered, and—he is fond of me.”
“Much you care about anybody’s being fond of you! You are the coldest woman I ever saw, and all your pretty—I mean all your affected little ways are just acting. Yes, that is what they are—just acting!” repeated Harry, as if struck by a happy idea.
“Very well, Harry. Then why don’t you let me go and act on the stage, where I shall get applauded instead of worried about it?”
“Because I don’t choose to let you go,” said he doggedly. “And I don’t choose to see myself slighted and treated as if I were nobody at all, just for that great ignorant, ill-mannered boy. And I won’t allow any more of these humbugging lessons—do you hear?”
“I hear you certainly,” answered Annie softly.
“That means that you won’t obey me, I suppose?” She did not reply.
“Very well then; I sha’n’t say any more,” said Harry, shaking with passion; “but, when I find him again grinning at you over his copy-book and swaggering about with his French, I shall just pitch his books and his tomfoolery into the fire and punch his head for him.”