“You've done noble,” said I, and I shook hands with him warmly.
Anita was greeting those flowers as if they were a friend suddenly appearing in a time of need. She turned now and beamed on Sanders. “Thank you,” she said; “thank you.” And Sanders was hers.
“Anything I can do—ma'am—sir?” asked Sanders.
“Nothing—except send my maid as soon as she comes,” she replied.
“I shan't need you,” said I.
“Mr. Monson is still here,” he said, lingering. “Shall I send him away, sir, or do you wish to see him?”
“I'll speak to him myself in a moment,” I answered.
When Sanders was gone, she seated herself and absently played with the buttons of her glove.
“Shall I bring Monson?” I asked. “You know, he's my—factotum.”
“I do not wish to see him,” she answered.