“If I only knew how intimate they really are—what she really thinks of Lilla!”
For the first time she understood on what unknown foundations her fellowship with Anne was built. Were they solid? Would they hold? Was Anne’s feeling for her more than a sudden girlish enthusiasm for an agreeable older woman, the kind of sympathy based on things one can enumerate, and may change one’s mind about, rather than the blind warmth of habit?
She stood musing while Anne moved about the studio, putting away the music, straightening a picture here and there.
“And this is where you’re going to work—”
Anne nodded joyously.
“Lilla apparently expects you to turn it into a dance-hall for her benefit.”
“Poor Lilla! She can’t see a new room without wanting to fox-trot in it. Life, for her, wherever she is, consists in going somewhere else in order to do exactly the same thing.”
Kate was relieved: there was no mistaking the half-disdainful pity of the tone.
“Well—don’t give her that latch-key!” she laughed, gathering up her furs.
Anne echoed the laugh. “There are to be only two latch-keys—yours and mine,” she said; and mother and daughter went gaily down the steep stairs.