“No,” said Harry, sharply. “By speaking candidly about one of its members--that is how I have hurt you; and it was just to turn me off from abusing him that you broke out with a catalogue of my faults, which Heaven knows I don’t deny. I tell you again, I may be a brute and a boor and anything else you like to make me out, but I’m not a fool; and, when you tell me you dislike this Aubrey Cooke, I tell you you are lying to me.” Annie faced him again very quietly. “I have not lied. I told you I disliked Aubrey Cooke when I was at the Piccadilly. I tell you now that I have loved him since then, and that now I hate him. Are you satisfied?” The passion in her words was convincing, but Harry was not content. He kept his gaze fixed on the frank eyes of his wife for a few moments, then looked away with a heavy sigh, murmuring: “Hate him! That’s no good. I’d rather you did not care one way or the other.” Annie was touched. She had fully expected a violent outbreak on her husband’s part when he should hear her confession. She put her hand softly on his sleeve. “Harry, you need not be frightened indeed; I shall never care for him again.” But Harry, without even trying to detain her hand, shook his head. “It is a very bad sign to hate a person,” said he. “I never hated any person but you, and just see where it has landed me. What does it matter if you don’t care for him, if you don’t care for me and won’t stay with me! And as for the way you pitched in to me just now, do you think I should let you go off if I didn’t feel I’d done you wrong in the old time and wanted to make it up to you? And if you won’t let me make it up to you by letting me love you, I must do it by letting you go. It is true I have run after--after other people, but, Annie, I was very young--wasn’t I?--and I didn’t know, I didn’t understand the charm of a woman like you then. How could I? I wasn’t even a man myself, and you were afraid of me. But, Annie, I do love you and appreciate you now more than any actor who ever lived, and the thought of your going to be stared at by every one who cares to pay to look at you is awful--awful! And my darling, you are my wife, you know, and if you won’t love me ever, I may as well go and cut my throat, for I--I--I----” He broke off, fairly sobbing. Annie’s heart was moved, and she hung her arms round him with one touch of the deeper tenderness of the woman he had longed to rouse. “Harry, Harry, I’ll come back, I’ll come back--at Christmas; that is only nine months, and if you love me still then, I will never go away from you again!”