Sir John smiled and congratulated himself upon his insight. He was so seldom wrong.
“The next question, Miss Anna,” he said, “is how am I to help you? I am wholly at your disposal.”
She looked up at him quickly. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning.
“Anna!” she repeated. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way.
“I think,” he said, “that I am right. I am very good at guessing names.”
“I am really curious,” she persisted. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. “Have you heard things?”
The tears stood in her eyes. She leaned a little towards him. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy.
“I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that your sister has been a little indiscreet. It is nothing at all for you to worry about.”
She looked away from him.
“I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk.”