“I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all.”
“I promise,” he answered heartily. “Allow me.”
He took his place by her side, and they talked lightly of London, the shops and people. They found a cosy little table in the tea-rooms, and everything was delicious. Anna, with her marvellous capacity for enjoyment, ate cakes and laughed, and forgot that she had had tea an hour or so ago at an A.B.C., or that she had a care in the world.
“By-the-bye,” he said, presently, “your sister was married to old Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t she? I saw the notice in the papers.”
Anna never flinched. But after the first shock came a warm glow of relief. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address.
“My sister and I,” she said slowly, “have seen very little of each other lately. I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me.”
Ennison shrugged his shoulders.
“Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. I thought perhaps you were staying with them, as you did not seem particularly anxious to recognize your old friends.”
Anna shook her head.
“No, I am alone,” she answered.