She did not in the least mind that her sister-in-law should imagine her to have a preference for Mr. Gibson; but she would not for worlds have it suspected that she could have the faintest warmth of feeling for--Mr. Cooke. When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, Harry was not among them, and William said he had gone up-stairs to his room. A few minutes later a servant came in to Annie, asking if she would go to Mr. Harold, who had sent word to say that he was ill and wanted her particularly. She went at once, and judged, as soon as she entered his room, that his ailment concerned his temper more than his health. “You sent for me, Harry? What is the matter? Don’t you feel well?” she asked kindly. In answer, he suddenly produced the _Era_ from the side of his chair, and brought his fist down with a thump upon the unfortunate pencil-mark by Aubrey Cooke’s name. “Who is this man Cooke?” he asked savagely. Annie glanced carelessly down at the paper, and said: “Mr. Aubrey Cooke? Oh, he is one of the actors whom I knew at the Regency--one of the very actors Lilian was speaking of at dinner!” “Yes, I know that very well; and you need not pretend to be so mightily indifferent, because I know more than that,” he said, with an affectation of penetration through which Annie easily read anxiety and curiosity. “Do you?” said she, smiling. “Then, if you know so much you must know that this curious jealousy you have been cultivating lately was never more out of place than in the case of the men I have acted with. And, if you don’t know as much as you pretend, ask Lilian.” Harry looked at her searchingly for a few minutes, and then dropped the paper, disarmed. She was looking so pretty in the light evening dress, with her graceful head crowned with the coils and curls of her shining brown hair, that he would have liked to drop his offended dignity and draw her into his arms and kiss her. But the unconscious Annie had another blow to inflict. She held in her arms a pile of books, and, when his face relaxed a little after her reassuring answer, she took one up in her hand. “I have brought you some books from Beckham, as you asked me to do,” she said. “And you don’t know what trouble I had in finding anything I thought you would like. I turned over half the books on the shelves, I think. Here is ‘Sponge’s Sporting Tour,’ and ‘How I Became an M. F. H.,’ and a book about horses, and----” She handed him a volume with her eyes still bent upon the others as she read their titles. But she looked up startled, as he snatched it from her and flung it with all his force against the opposite wall. “Harry!” she exclaimed, amazed at the fury in his face. “What have I done now? It is impossible to please you!”