Anne's flaming face bent lower over the grip. There was a short silence. Then Hilda whispered:
"Annie—is there—anything—you would like to know?"
Anne did not even shake her head. She had felt like this once, strengthless in disgust, when Belle had persisted in showing her the colored illustration of a disease in its worst stage. At last she succeeded in turning to her mother.
"I'm going to phone for the taxi, now, mamma, and we'll have a cup of tea before it comes."
"I'll put the kettle right on." Hilda bustled away, relieved. For she had always found it a little difficult to enlighten Anne and had a vague idea that it would have been easier if Anne had been a brunette. Certain simple truths had a way of splattering all over Anne's fairness, and making Hilda uncomfortable.
"Oh, well, I dare say she knows more than I did at her age; everything's different than it used to be, anyhow."
With this large, comforting deduction, Hilda began to make the tea. They drank it in a constrained effort on Anne's part to keep the conversation general, and finished just as the taxi driver rang the bell. The little trunk went bobbing down the stairs; Hilda took Anne in her arms and they clung together, not crying, but very quiet.
"There, dear, I must run, and you can say I eloped and phoned you afterwards, or anything that comes handiest."
"Oh, I'm not going to lie about it. It's done now. Besides, papa's bark's a lot worse than his bite. He'll be decent when you get back."
Anne kissed her mother and ran quickly down the stairs, waved from the door and shut it behind her. As the taxi drove off, she looked back, but Hilda was not at the window. Anne's eyes clouded.