“Graeme,” said Harry, one night, when they were sitting together after the rest had all gone up-stairs, “don’t you think we have been uncomfortable long enough? Don’t you think you have given us enough of that miserable, hopeless face for one occasion? I think a change would be agreeable to all concerned. It would to me, at any rate.”
Graeme was so startled at this speech, that for a little she could not say a word. Then she said something about being tired and not very well—and about its being impossible always to help one’s looks.
“Why don’t you say at once that it is I who have made you so miserable that you have lost all faith in me—that I am going straight to ruin. That is what you mean to say—you know very well.”
“Harry,” said she, gently, “I did not mean to say anything unkind.”
Harry left his seat, and threw himself on the sofa with a groan.
“If you would only rate a fellow soundly, Graeme! If you would only tell me at once, what a weak, pitiful wretch you think me! I could bear that; but your silence and that miserable face, I cannot bear.”
“I cannot say I think you weak or pitiful, Harry. It would not be true. And I am afraid you would not like my rating better than my silence. I can only say, I have had less courage in thinking of your going away to fill an important and responsible situation, since that night.”
Harry groaned.
“Oh! well; don’t bother yourself about my going away, and my responsibilities. The chances are some one else will have to fill the important situation.”
“Have you seen—has Mr Ruthven returned?”