It was quite true that she would be dull and miserable by herself; she felt that as soon as she heard his footsteps going down-stairs. She wanted to go to the door, call him back, and tell him to come again soon; she even crossed the room to do so, but she turned back and sunk into a chair, ashamed of the impulse, for she knew that there was danger in his society. She felt that her indignation against him had faded away, that his presence had soothed her weary, excited mind as the presence of no other person in the world could have done, and that, if she saw much more of him, she would inevitably come to depend upon his companionship as she had done when they were on tour together. It had been harmless, pleasant intercourse then; but Aubrey’s words on that November night had changed all that; and Annie knew she ought to have summoned courage to tell him that very afternoon what the nature of the obstacle between them was. But it was so much pleasanter and even easier to skate over the difficult matter of her sudden disappearance, and to avoid the “scene” which the tragedy-manner Aubrey had assumed when they approached this subject had threatened. “I certainly did not encourage him to come,” said she to herself, with a twinge of conscience. “Of course it does not really matter whether he comes or not, except that Harry would make a silly fuss if he knew that anybody who was at all young or nice came to see me. But there is nothing really for him to be jealous about; and, after all, I cannot shut myself up quite like a nun just because my husband is ill-tempered.” So, when Aubrey called two days afterward, and had the sense not to make any allusion to his love-grievances, she was very glad to see him, and flattered herself with the thought that he understood that there was no further question of a warmer sentiment than friendship between them. In this belief she was justified, for Aubrey had decided upon his line of conduct, and fell into the position of brotherly old friend in the most natural manner in the world. After a few visits, during none of which did Aubrey recall, by word or look, his old love or its disappointment, she fell into her former perfectly open and unreserved manner with him, and felt unspeakably grateful to him for the good sense which had restored the old frank companionship between them. She grew happy again, attributed the change in her spirits to the prospect of her speedy reappearance on the stage, and wondered how she could have remained so long away from it. Under the influence of these brighter feelings she wrote an affectionate letter to her husband, with a little compunction at not having responded more warmly to his kindness when she was at the Grange.