“Yes, because you don’t care--you don’t try. I am just an ignorant boor, to be fed and clothed, and smoothed into good temper when I am growing dangerous, and to be slighted and told lies to when I protest against such treatment. You see I know all about it, though I am such a clod!” She had walked to the other end of the room, picked up the book without any show of annoyance, and was trying to restore an unruffled appearance to the crumpled leaves. This action exasperated him still more. “There now--it doesn’t matter what I do, because it’s only Harry! Very well then! There--and there--and there--and there!” At each repetition of the word he flung another of the volumes she had incautiously placed within his reach, not at his wife, but at the wall by which she was standing. “Really, Harry, you ought to be in a lunatic asylum!” said Annie, out of patience at last. “So I shall be very soon, if you go on treating me like a child, when I love you like a man!” burst out Harry, passionately. His wife looked up at him, from where she was standing at the other side of the room, in astonishment. “Yes, yes--stare at me as much as you like; I do love you, and I’m not the fool you think me, except in caring for you! Do you think I don’t know that you look down upon me, and that everybody thinks you thrown away upon me? Why, I knew that in the old days when I first married you; but then you just avoided me, and I didn’t care. But now you come back, pretty and bright and charming, not cold and shy as you used to do, you flutter about me and nurse me and coax me into good-humor, and make me laugh and get me to do everything you wish; and then, when I want to show you I love you for it, you shut me off with a little laugh, just to show me that I am only Harry, and whatever I say and whatever I do doesn’t matter. I say it is cruel, wicked, and, however good and clever you may be, you are treating me badly!” he ended, his voice breaking down. “Harry!” was all his astonished wife could utter. “I know I’m not a companion for you,” he went on, “but you don’t want me to be, you won’t understand that I want to be. I asked you to get me some books; but I wanted books that you liked, so that I might read them and talk to you about them, like William and George. And then you bring me a lot of sporting trash, as if I wasn’t fit for anything but the stable!” “Harry!” whispered his wife again, making a step toward him. He looked up at her eagerly, waiting for her to come to him. But she stopped. “Well, are you afraid of me?” said he. His tone was not inviting; but Annie understood him this time, knelt down by his chair, and let him put his arm round her. “Annie, will you try to love me?” he asked, huskily. “Yes, Harry, I will try.” CHAPTER XVIII.