I let him out, and then quietly took up the book.
'Give that book to me,' said Arthur, in no very courteous tone.

I gave it to him.
'Why did you let the dog out ?' he asked; 'you knew I wanted him.' 'By what token ?' I replied; 'by your throwing the book at him?
but perhaps it was intended for me ?' 'No; but I see you've got a taste of it,' said he, looking at my hand, that had also been struck, and was rather severely grazed.
I returned to my reading, and he endeavoured to occupy himself in the same manner; but in a little while, after several portentous yawns, he pronounced his book to be 'cursed trash,' and threw it on the table.
Then followed eight or ten minutes of silence, during the greater part of which, I believe, he was staring at me.

At last his patience was tired out.
'What is that book, Helen ?' he exclaimed.
I told him.
'Is it interesting ?' 'Yes, very.' I went on reading, or pretending to read, at least--I cannot say there was much communication between my eyes and my brain; for, while the former ran over the pages, the latter was earnestly wondering when Arthur would speak next, and what he would say, and what I should answer.

But he did not speak again till I rose to make the tea, and then it was only to say he should not take any.

He continued lounging on the sofa, and alternately closing his eyes and looking at his watch and at me, till bed-time, when I rose, and took my candle and retired.
'Helen!' cried he, the moment I had left the room.