“Weren’t you expecting me?” she asked, noticing his surprise. “You said I was to come to tea.”
Richard Sotheby led her into the studio, and Ginette rose from the sofa, where she had been lying. The girl’s face had changed; Anne could see that she had been crying, but there was so much pride in her greeting that she felt shy of looking her in the face.
“Here is a letter for you,” said Ginette gravely, speaking in French and pronouncing her words with the greatest distinctness. “You are to present it personally to M. Kieselyov at that address at eight o’clock to-morrow morning. If he thinks you are in the English style he will engage you.”
“Thank you with all my heart. Your goodness....” Ginette did not wait for Anne to finish her sentence, but walked away across the room.
Richard was making the tea. “Have you heard from your father?” he asked.
“No, I haven’t,” said Anne, feeling rather guilty. She had not written to him since her arrival.
“I had a letter from mother with messages for you from Rachel.” He was half tempted to add that their names must be coupled together in the village by now, and that this was disagreeable to him, but he looked at Anne and refrained.
She had taken off her hat, and the short, closely cropped hair shone like straw. There was a worried look on her pale face.
“My God, what innocence!” he said to himself.
“Ginette and Richard have been quarrelling,” thought Anne, wondering if Grandison would come in, for she was miserably disappointed not to see him.