“I hate it,” she said with sudden emphasis.
“You what?” asked Saxon, bending towards her.
“Hate it,” she repeated. “I want to get away.”
“You can’t just now,” he said, speaking in a low, sympathetic tone. “It would be impossible—would it not?—while your uncle is so ill.”
“He isn’t really ill,” said Annie; “he just wants care.”
“He wants the sort of care you can give him,” repeated Saxon.
“Or you,” said Annie.
“I?” said the young man. “How can I possibly do what you would do for him?”
“You can do far better than I,” said Annie restlessly. “And the fact is, Cousin John—may I call you Cousin John?”
“Call me John, without the ‘cousin,’ as I will call you Annie if you don’t mind.”