"It was played at my request," said Mr. Garratt. "I'll ask for it next time on a week-day, Miss Margaret. I shall be here again soon," he added, in a lower tone.
Hannah went up to the piano, locked it and put the key into her pocket. "Mr. Garratt," she said, turning upon him, "I think you had better make up your mind who it is you come to see week-days or Sundays, then we shall know."
"I've known all along," he said, casting prudence to the winds.
"Well, then, you'd better speak and be done with it."
"It isn't you, Miss Barton; so now you know."
Mrs. Vincent stood up and looked at him, grave and distressed.
"And, pray, who is it?" Hannah asked; it seemed a needless question, but nothing else suggested itself and something had to be said.
"Well, since you want to know, it's Miss Vincent. I've been in love with her from the first moment I set eyes on her, and that's the truth. As for you, Miss Barton, your temper is a little more than I can stand, and I wouldn't be hired to live with you."
"Mr. Garratt—" Mrs. Vincent began.
"Mrs. Vincent," he said, turning round on her sharply, "let me speak. I came here to look after Miss Barton, I frankly confess it; but I wasn't in love with her, I only wanted to be, and I've found out that I can't be. It's no good, her temper is altogether more than I could risk, so now I've said it."