At the back of his mind was the fancy
that these two children of his loves would come together. Nothing
is quite so sentimental as a healthy old bachelor. He pictured them
making unity from his confusions; in imagination heard the patter on
the stairs of tiny feet. To all intents and purposes he would be a
grandfather. Priding himself on his cunning, he kept his dream to
himself, as he thought, but under-estimated Ann's smartness.
For days together she would follow Matthew with her eyes, watching
him from behind her long lashes, listening in silence to everything
he said, vainly seeking to find points in him. He was unaware of
her generous intentions. He had a vague feeling he was being
criticised. He resented it even in those days.
"I do try," said Ann suddenly one evening apropos of nothing at all.
"No one will ever know how hard I try not to dislike him."
Abner looked up.
"Sometimes," continued Ann, "I tell myself I have almost succeeded.
And then he will go and do something that will bring it all on
again."
"What does he do?" asked Abner.
"Oh, I can't tell you," confessed Ann. "If I told you it would
sound as if it was my fault. It's all so silly. And then he thinks
such a lot of himself. If one only knew why! He can't tell you
himself when you ask him.
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