'Strange!'
'Not at all, Roland dear, when I think and care so little about him.'
She tried a tiny caress, but he turned from her, embittered and humiliated.
Disappointment, shame, sorrow, and mortification were all gathering in his heart, as doubts of Annot grew there too; and in his then weak and nervous state he actually trembled to pursue a subject so obnoxious. Was it to be the old story;
'Of one that loved, not wisely, but too well;
Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplexed in the extreme.'
A little silence ensued, during which, as he looked upon her in all her fair beauty, so unstable of purpose, and so humble in heart is one who loves truly that he felt inclined to throw himself upon her affection for him, and only beseech her to be careful.
She was—he thought—young, artless, rash, and perhaps knew not how unseemly, especially in a censorious country place, were these mistakes of hers. But her manner repelled him. The half-grown sensation of softness died away, and irritation came instead. So he said bluntly:
'Annot, I tell you plainly that there must be no more of this sort of thing.'
Her usually sweet little lips curled defiantly, and she eyed him inquiringly now.
'Dare you try to make me believe that what you admit is all that has occurred?'