“How could I, when you were so disgusted with me?”
Annie’s face fell. A cloud had come over this new happiness already. He had himself reminded her of his own delinquencies, which she had been ready enough, in the first flush of this joy in her husband’s society, to believe untrue.
“I think,” said she, drawing her hand out of his instinctively, “that I had reason to be.”
“But I don’t think you had any,” said he earnestly. “I know you will be able to prove you were right, because you are so much cleverer than me that what you say always sounds right, even when I can’t help thinking you’re really wrong after all.”
“Well, prove that I had no reason to be annoyed, and disgusted—if you can.”
“Don’t speak so coldly to me then, and I will tell you what I think; but I can’t if you turn away your head so stiffly and speak just as if I were the old Harry that you used to hate.”
“I’m not sure that I don’t hate you till I have heard what you have to say for yourself.”
“Yes, you are,” said Harry, twining her arm about his neck with confidence. “You needn’t think I’m so simple as not to know the difference between Annie who is sweet out of duty, and Annie who is sweet out of pleasure.”
“Go on with your explanations.”
“Well, you were disgusted with me, and thought I was degrading myself.”