“It was my duty, you are in my ‘district.’ May I come again?” She hesitated.
“Don’t be unkind. I’ve been very good, haven’t I?” said he, softly.
“I think you had better not come again, Mr. Cooke. It is different in the country, you know; but here, in town, the least thing is noticed and talked about.”
“When do you play in ‘Nathalie’?”
“I think in a fortnight or three weeks.”
“It will be longer than that. In the meantime, you won’t be rehearsing every day, and on the off-days you will be frightfully dull—or won’t you?”
She turned away irresolutely.
“Let me come sometimes, and I won’t abuse the permission;” and she let him go without a definite answer.
It was quite true that she would be dull and miserable by herself; she felt that as soon as she heard his footsteps going down-stairs. She wanted to go to the door, call him back, and tell him to come again soon; she even crossed the room to do so, but she turned back and sunk into a chair, ashamed of the impulse, for she knew that there was danger in his society. She felt that her indignation against him had faded away, that his presence had soothed her weary, excited mind as the presence of no other person in the world could have done, and that, if she saw much more of him, she would inevitably come to depend upon his companionship as she had done when they were on tour together. It had been harmless, pleasant intercourse then; but Aubrey’s words on that November night had changed all that; and Annie knew she ought to have summoned courage to tell him that very afternoon what the nature of the obstacle between them was. But it was so much pleasanter and even easier to skate over the difficult matter of her sudden disappearance, and to avoid the “scene” which the tragedy-manner Aubrey had assumed when they approached this subject had threatened.
“I certainly did not encourage him to come,” said she to herself, with a twinge of conscience. “Of course it does not really matter whether he comes or not, except that Harry would make a silly fuss if he knew that anybody who was at all young or nice came to see me. But there is nothing really for him to be jealous about; and, after all, I cannot shut myself up quite like a nun just because my husband is ill-tempered.”