“Come on, Jenny,” answered Annie Bush, and turned to Basil. “Are you coming?”
He looked up from his paper indifferently.
“No; I have some letters to write.”
Jenny preferred to remain with her husband, and, once alone, they talked for a time of domestic affairs; but there seemed a certain constraint between them, and presently Basil began to read. When Annie, after some while, came back, she glanced at him aggressively.
“Better?” she asked.
“What?”
“I thought you didn’t seem well at tea.”
“Thanks, I’m in the best of health.”
“You might make yourself obliging, then, instead of sitting there like a funeral-mute when I have a gentleman to visit me.”
“I’m sorry my behaviour doesn’t meet with your approval,” he answered quietly.