And she consented readily enough. And then came the crowning triumph of the day to Harry. He led his wife into the library, the volumes of which had luckily been collected long before his occupation of Kirby Hall, and said, turning proudly to her:
“You never thought I should get fond of books, Annie. Well, I have, and I like this room better than any in the house.”
There were three photographs of her on the mantel-piece, there was a liqueur-case on a side-table, and the room was strongly perfumed with tobacco. Annie’s eyes twinkled, but she only laughed contentedly.
“And now you shall hear me read aloud,” said he.
So he put her into an arm-chair, and sat on a footstool at her feet, and read her a couple of pages of the Nineteenth Century. It was a very poor performance indeed, hesitating, badly emphasized, with the long words slurred over. He was not at his best, for he had Annie’s fingers in one hand and his cigar in his mouth.
“You read beautifully now, Harry!” said she, when he looked up for approval; and the clever, well-informed woman really thought so.
“It only shows what perseverance will do,” said Harry, gravely. “I’ve read that piece aloud to myself twenty or thirty times.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Annie passed the night at Kirby Park; and, when she and Harry were sitting at breakfast the next morning, he told her he should come and see her act that night.
“Then will you come up to town with me?” she asked eagerly.