She drove home, and, as soon as she had taken off her hat and mantle, went into the library, where, in spite of Harry’s rough prohibition, she still continued to give William lessons in French. Dusk was coming on; but it was light enough for her to see the figure bending over a book in a low chair near the window. She crossed the room and put her hand on his shoulder.
“William, how wrong of you to try your eyes like that.”
He looked up. It was not William, but Harry.
“You, Harry?” murmured his wife, in astonishment.
“Yes, me—Harry. I may try my eyes as much as I like, mayn’t I?”
She took the book gently from his hand. It was “Sartor Resartus.”
“You have not been reading this?” she gasped.
“Yes, I have. I saw it lying on the table with your book-marker in it, so I took it up to see what it was like; and I’ve read six pages, but I’ll be hanged if I can make head or tail of it!”
“Nor can I,” said Annie.
“Well, what do you read it for then?”