"Aren't you going to kiss me, Anna?"
With a pathetic little cry the girl ran into Rosemary's arms, and, her head buried on her friend's shoulder, she burst into tears. Rosemary let her cry for a moment or two; her own eyes were anything but dry, for with a quick glance she had taken in the girl's changed appearance, also the shabby clothing, the worn boots, the unmistakable air of grinding poverty, and, worse still, of insufficient food. Poor little Anna! If Peter saw her now!
After a few moments the girl raised her head and dabbed away her tears. Rosemary led her to the sofa, made her sit down beside her, and took both her thin little hands in hers.
"To begin with you must not call me Miss Fowkes, Anna," she said. "I was always Rosemary, wasn't I?"
Anna nodded, and a wan little smile struggled round her lips.
"And, you know, I am married now," Rosemary went on. "Hadn't you heard?"
Anna shook her head. She could not yet trust herself to speak.
"Of course," Rosemary said gaily, "how stupid of me. Jasper and I were married very quietly in London, and we are not people of such importance that your Hungarian papers would chronicle the fact. My husband is Lord Tarkington, the best and kindest of men. I'll tell him presently that you are here. He would love to see you."
"No, no, Rosemary dear!" Anna broke in quickly, "don't tell Lord Tarkington that I am here. I—I never see strangers now. You see, I have no decent clothes, and——"
"Jasper would look at your sweet little face, Anna, and never notice your clothes. And you are not going to call my husband a stranger, are you?"