'I do not wish to try and make you believe anything,' she replied sullenly, yet in a broken tone.
'This is worse and worse,' said Roland in a husky voice.
'Are you jealous of him?' she asked, with a laugh that had no mirth in it. 'Surely not; he is but a boy.'
'I am, and shall be, jealous of no one, Annot!'
'He speaks to me; it is not my fault—and is always polite. Do not let us squabble, dearest Roland—I do so hate squabbling,' said she, selecting a white bud from among the flowers at her waist and pinning it in his hole; but Roland's blood was too much up to be propitiated by a white bud, so Annot had recourse to a few tears; but, so far from there being peace between them, matters waxed more unpleasant still.
'Why has this Mr.—ah—Hoyle—as you name him, never called here, nor left even a card?'
'I cannot tell.'
Yet he is an old London friend, and has come almost to the house door!'
'I cannot tell,' repeated Annot.
'Ycu have met him on the skirts of the park?'