He had turned upon Lydia.
"Oh, yes," said she. "It's heavenly. Anne doesn't. Except when she's teaching children."
"What made you learn dancing?" he asked Anne.
"We wanted to do something," she said guiltily. She was afraid her tongue was going to betray her and tell the story of the lean year after their mother died when they found out that mother had lived a life of magnificent deception as to the ease of housekeeping on twelve hundred a year.
"Yes," said Jeffrey, "but dancing? Why'd you pick out that?"
"We couldn't do anything else," said Lydia impatiently. "Anne and I don't know anything in particular." She thought he might have been clever enough to see that, while too tactful to betray it. "But we look nice—together—and anybody can dance."
"Oh!" said Jeffrey. His eyes had a shade less of gravity, but he kept an unmoved seriousness of tone.
"About our living with Farvie," said Anne. "I can see you'd want to know."
"Yes," said he, "I do."
"We love to," said Anne. "We don't know what we should do if Farvie turned us out."