“Yes?”
“I only thought—well, he is a little shorter than you——”
“I see,” Anne said; and with that she turned eyes starry with emotion full upon her mother. The look was almost tragic, but her voice was gentle. “Did we seem—ridiculous?”
“No, indeed! Not at all.”
“I think we did,” Anne murmured and looked down at the dressing-table again. “Well—it doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t be so fanciful,” Mrs. Cromwell said. “You couldn’t look ridiculous under any circumstances, Anne.”
“I understand,” said Anne. “You don’t think I danced with Hobart Simms because I wanted to, do you, Mother?”
“No, it was because you’re kind,” Mrs. Cromwell returned, comfortingly; then continued, in a casual way, “It just happened you were with poor little Hobart during the short time I was looking on. I suppose you weren’t too partial to him, dear. You danced with all the rest of the customary besiegers, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” Anne said, wearily. In profile to her mother, she stood looking down upon the dressing-table, her hands moving among little silver boxes and trumperies of ivory and jade and crystal; but those white and shapely hands, adored by the mother, were doing nothing purposeful and were only pretending to be employed—a signal to mothers that daughters wish to be alone but do not know how to put the wish into tactful words. Mrs. Cromwell understood; but she did not go.
“I’m glad you danced with all of ’em,” she said. “You did dance with them all, did you, Anne?”