“I suppose you call me an idler.”
“Well, I don’t think you are much else,” said she, smiling.
“It seems to me, Annie, you expect a precious deal too much of a man,” he grumbled presently, in an injured tone. “To please you he must slave like a nigger, whether he has any need to work or not, and read himself blind over the dullest trash that ever was printed, and never talk about anything he himself likes, but chatter by the yard about things that haven’t the least interest, and beam all over with smiles when he is annoyed.”
Annie laughed.
“I don’t think I ever expected all that of anybody, and certainly not of you, Harry.”
And weary of this useless discussion, she left the room as Stephen entered it. The friendship between her and the cripple had never been great, and he was now rather jealous of her position in the household, which had become stronger than that of his adored Lilian, with whom, however, he had begun of late to have serious quarrels. Harry had let slip the fact that it was Stephen who had informed him of Colonel Richardson’s presence in Beckham, which had so needlessly excited his jealousy. Annie wondered what his object could have been.
When she left them together, Harry jumped up from his chair and faced his cousin.
“What do you come tormenting me for with your humbugging stories about Annie and Richardson? She doesn’t care a straw for the fellow!”
“Doesn’t she? Oh, that’s all right!” said Stephen, meaningly.
“No; she only spoke to him out of civility,” said Harry, raising his voice, but looking anxiously at the other. “Here—what do you mean with your confounded shrugs and squirms? Look me straight in the face, and say out what you mean?”