“I did not say that. I know your conduct is circumspection itself. But I know which of these two gentlemen is—nicer than Harry.”
“Oh, you might put them both together and bracket a good many more with them under that heading!” said Annie.
“I dare say. But you need not look so ostentatiously indifferent. I should think it must be impossible to know Mr. Gibson well without admiring him.”
“Well, that is true, certainly,” assented Annie, not giving the least sign of the relief she felt at hearing Lilian utter the wrong name.
She did not in the least mind that her sister-in-law should imagine her to have a preference for Mr. Gibson; but she would not for worlds have it suspected that she could have the faintest warmth of feeling for—Mr. Cooke.
When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, Harry was not among them, and William said he had gone up-stairs to his room. A few minutes later a servant came in to Annie, asking if she would go to Mr. Harold, who had sent word to say that he was ill and wanted her particularly. She went at once, and judged, as soon as she entered his room, that his ailment concerned his temper more than his health.
“You sent for me, Harry? What is the matter? Don’t you feel well?” she asked kindly.
In answer, he suddenly produced the Era from the side of his chair, and brought his fist down with a thump upon the unfortunate pencil-mark by Aubrey Cooke’s name.
“Who is this man Cooke?” he asked savagely.
Annie glanced carelessly down at the paper, and said: