“He ought to have been told what it was, so that at least he might not be left to think that it was merely an excuse to get rid of a man of whom she had grown tired. But she had another surprise in store for him; she disappeared without letting him know what had become of her.” “And he has spent his time ever since in a vain and romantic pursuit of her?” “Oh, dear, no! He went back to town, furnished a new set of chambers, and has grown more particular about his cooking.” “And you hold him up as an object of sympathy? He is a man to whom an offer of sympathy would be an impertinence.” “He does not want sympathy, but justice; and, if he cannot get that, he will have revenge--and melodramatic revenge, of course, but small, spiteful, mean, and modern!” “I don’t think such a threat would frighten her from you.” “You are trying to pique me.” “I! Oh, no! What interest can I have in the matter?” “Can you give me your assurance that you have none?” The sudden intensity of his manner would have forced some show of emotion from Annie if she had not been on her guard. “I take an interest in the affairs of any friend who has shown me as much kindness as you have, Mr. Cooke,” said she, gravely, and with a little stiffness. Aubrey was silent for a few minutes. “Thank you!” he said, dryly, after clearing his throat two or three times. Annie felt that the conversation had got to a difficult point, and, to avoid the awkwardness of the pause which followed, she rose. He rose too. “I have intruded upon you too long, Miss Langton; you must want rest and quiet after your long journey,” said he, in a casual-visitor’s tone, which deceived Annie until she saw by the fading daylight that he was as pale as death, and that his lips were quivering. “I cannot thank you enough for coming. I should have been so very dull here all alone on the first evening of my return, if it had not been for your charity,” said she, with as much vivacity as she could put into her tone and manner. “It was my duty, you are in my ‘district.’ May I come again?” She hesitated. “Don’t be unkind. I’ve been very good, haven’t I?” said he, softly. “I think you had better not come again, Mr. Cooke. It is different in the country, you know; but here, in town, the least thing is noticed and talked about.” “When do you play in ‘Nathalie’?” “I think in a fortnight or three weeks.” “It will be longer than that. In the meantime, you won’t be rehearsing every day, and on the off-days you will be frightfully dull--or won’t you?” She turned away irresolutely. “Let me come sometimes, and I won’t abuse the permission;” and she let him go without a definite answer.