“You call that nothing!” said Annie, raising her eyes wide with horror to his face.
“Of course I know it was wrong,” replied he impatiently; “but there was nothing else to be done. I could not have married you without, or you would have had to pass your honeymoon in an attic.”
“I would rather have passed it as a tramp on the high-road than as we did, if I had known.”
“Well, you are an ungrateful little cat. When I thought of nothing but pleasing you and buying you pretty things from morning till night.”
“Pretty things that were bought with stolen money!”
“How dare you say such thing to me?” he shouted. “Don’t you know I’m your husband; and do you suppose I am not the best judge of my own conduct? Do you suppose I should ever do anything a gentleman need be ashamed of?”
“I think you have done a thing a beggar would be ashamed of.”
“Thank you, thank you! You call me a beggar and you call me a thief. I shall be a murderer next, I suppose; and, by Jove, it would serve you right if I were. Haven’t I behaved well to you? Didn’t I come to London with you just to stop you from crying? And didn’t I marry you when I knew very well that all my family would disapprove of it?”
“Oh, yes; you made a noble sacrifice. I am deeply grateful to you for throwing yourself away. It spoils the look of it a little, though, that your elder brother was willing to do so, too, if you hadn’t been beforehand with him.”
“You may say what you like; but it is a sacrifice of a man’s liberty to marry at twenty. As for George, I believe you like him better than me all the time. Answer me—do you—did you ever care for him?” demanded he roughly.