"Little Annette!" he murmured, beaming patronizingly upon the girl. "Happy again. I knew you would be. But I haven't heard you laugh for a long time."
"No," said the girl, looking at him intently, "I haven't laughed since we came here."
"But you are happy now. Yes, yes, quite happy, quite happy. Up early this morning and all round the place like a little lark."
"Because I couldn't sleep. And because—early in the morning—others are not up—and I can be alone."
"No one can—no one can be alone in this world, dear. No one should. The laws of God and man, of Nature, forbid it." His old, self-satisfied eyes took in the long rounded lines of her figure and the virgin freshness of her throat and face with assuring calculation. "Especially, my dear, is it a crime to attempt to remain alone when nature has so abundantly endowed one for the purpose of—not remaining alone. Also, my dear," he continued, the playfulness gone from his tones as he pointed sternly at the diamond upon the third finger of her left hand, "you will kindly not forget that you wear that."
"Do you think there is any opportunity for me to forget it?" she asked.
"Do you! Think!"
He attempted to face down her steadfast eyes. He failed, and, turning his glance uneasily, he saw Roger Payne.
"What's this? What's this?"
His eyes ran wildly from Roger to the girl and back again; and as they rested upon Payne they grew dead and gray with hatred, the futile hopeless hatred of an old man for one who is young.
"Who is this man, Annette? How does he come to be here? Answer me at once; answer me, I say!"