“He always knew me as Miss Langton, like the rest of my theatrical friends. I don’t know whether he had heard I was married——”
“That is a lie, Annie!” he burst out, with a suddenness which made her start. “You silly woman, why don’t you tell me the truth? For the truth I will have; and, if I have to get it from anybody but you, it will be the worse for you and for him too.”
Annie’s gaze sunk under the fierceness which blazed in his eyes and recalled to her mind his old savagery at the Grange. He lowered his voice again as he saw her shrink.
“Annie, don’t let me fancy you have anything to tell me worse than I have thought,” said he, with a tremor in his voice. “You need not be afraid of me; I will listen calmly to whatever you have to say. I haven’t always been a good husband to you, and I feel it quite as much as you do. But I have been fond of you, and good to you lately, and you might trust me a little, if only for the sake of that. Now tell me! You do like this Mr. Cooke, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I like him, or I should not let him come and see me.”
“And he likes you?”
“If he did not, he would not take the trouble to come.”
“And if it had not been for my existence, I suppose——”
“You have no right to suppose anything,” said Annie, impatiently; “there is nothing to suppose. You are the only person who has ever found the slightest fault with my conduct. There is no cause whatever for your trifling jealousy, any more than there was at the Grange, where you teased me to death with your absurd suspicions.”
“But you treated my jealousy differently then. It was trifling and tiresome, I dare say. But you just laughed it off lightly then, while now you grow impatient and restless under it.”