Annie gulped down the tears this unlucky speech brought to her eyes, and said, with forced cheerfulness:
“Yes, he is, of course, much happier in the country.”
“Of course,” admitted Stephen, guardedly. “He has sent you this letter.”
She tore it open. It was only a short note, very affectionate, but with no definite word concerning his own movements. A sudden impulse of angry pride seized her, and shame at the long letter she had prepared in exchange for this brief, hurriedly-written note. She took up the letter she was about to send, and, excusing herself to Stephen, went into the next room, tore it into shreds, and, hastily writing a note as short and as vague as her husband’s own, returned and gave that as her answer.
They were not long over tea, as Stephen seemed anxious to get away, and Annie herself was late for the theater. When he had gone, she dressed very quickly, and followed him out of the house in a few minutes. At the end of the second street she had to pass through, she saw Stephen and Miss West standing in earnest conversation. She had to pass them; but they were too much absorbed in what they were saying to notice her approach.
When she was near to them, she heard Stephen say bitterly:
“Of course you like Harry better than me, because he’s such a tall, straight, handsome fellow!”
“Handsome is that handsome does. I like him because he likes me. You tell him so, give him my love, and say he’ll see me before very long if he’s a good boy;” and Miss West, with a laugh and a roguish glance, hurried away; and Stephen, without turning round to see Annie, followed slowly in the same direction.
Annie walked on steadily, with the hot tears burning in her eyes.
This was what Harry’s desertion meant; and this coarse woman, whom she had just been assisting, was the enchantress who held his heart for the time.