“I used to think of you sometimes at rehearsal, when I came to that bit. Was Harry sitting with you?”
“Yes; he nearly went off his head. He kept saying, ‘Isn’t she perfect? Isn’t she lovely?’ And I had to keep him from jumping up two or three times. I think if I hadn’t he would have tried to climb on to the stage to you.”
“Dear old boy! How nice of him! I am so glad he was pleased with me.”
“Well, I don’t see much merit in that. He couldn’t help being proud of you when all the people about were saying how good you were. If he had been a decent sort of husband, he would have waited himself to take you home, instead of telling me to do so and prancing off himself goodness knows where.”
“Didn’t he say where he was going?”
“No; he knew better than to tell me, because I should have just given him a bit of my mind about it; but I’ve no doubt he’s gone off to supper with somebody or other,” said William, with rigid disgust.
“William, how dare you talk like that? Do you know you are speaking about my husband?”
“Oh, yes, of course I know! Why, Annie, you are not really angry, are you?”
“Yes, I am—very angry. When the poor fellow has spent a miserable day, and made himself quite ill between his nervousness for me and his grief over the shock he had this morning, you take the first opportunity of abusing him to me, his wife.”
“But, Annie, you haven’t grown fond of Harry, have you?” said William, with pity and fear in his voice.