At luncheon, Owen’s radiant countenance proclaimed the happy sequel, and Darrow, when the party had moved back to the oak-room for coffee, deemed it discreet to wander out alone to the terrace with his cigar. The conclusion of Owen’s romance brought his own plans once more to the front. Anna had promised that she would consider dates and settle details as soon as Madame de Chantelle and her grandson had been reconciled, and Darrow was eager to go into the question at once, since it was necessary that the preparations for his marriage should go forward as rapidly as possible. Anna, he knew, would not seek any farther pretext for delay; and he strolled up and down contentedly in the sunshine, certain that she would come out and reassure him as soon as the reunited family had claimed its due share of her attention.
But when she finally joined him her first word was for the younger lovers.
“I want to thank you for what you’ve done for Owen,” she began, with her happiest smile.
“Who—I?” he laughed. “Are you confusing me with Miss Painter?”
“Perhaps I ought to say for me,” she corrected herself. “You’ve been even more of a help to us than Adelaide.”
“My dear child! What on earth have I done?”
“You’ve managed to hide from Madame de Chantelle that you don’t really like poor Sophy.”
Darrow felt the pallour in his cheek. “Not like her? What put such an idea into your head?”
“Oh, it’s more than an idea—it’s a feeling. But what difference does it make, after all? You saw her in such a different setting that it’s natural you should be a little doubtful. But when you know her better I’m sure you’ll feel about her as I do.”
“It’s going to be hard for me not to feel about everything as you do.”