Effie, who was attended by a shaggy terrier, had picked up two or three subordinate dogs at the stable; and as she trotted on ahead with her yapping escort, Anna hung back to throw a look at Darrow.
“Yes,” he answered it, “she’s exquisite.... Oh, I see what I’m asking of you! But she’ll be quite happy here, won’t she? And you must remember it won’t be for long...”
Anna sighed her acquiescence. “Oh, she’ll be happy here. It’s her nature to be happy. She’ll apply herself to it, conscientiously, as she does to her lessons, and to what she calls ‘being good’...In a way, you see, that’s just what worries me. Her idea of ‘being good’ is to please the person she’s with—she puts her whole dear little mind on it! And so, if ever she’s with the wrong person——”
“But surely there’s no danger of that just now? Madame de Chantelle tells me that you’ve at last put your hand on a perfect governess——”
Anna, without answering, glanced away from him toward her daughter.
“It’s lucky, at any rate,” Darrow continued, “that Madame de Chantelle thinks her so.”
“Oh, I think very highly of her too.”
“Highly enough to feel quite satisfied to leave her with Effie?”
“Yes. She’s just the person for Effie. Only, of course, one never knows.... She’s young, and she might take it into her head to leave us...” After a pause she added: “I’m naturally anxious to know what you think of her.”
When they entered the house the hands of the hall clock stood within a few minutes of the luncheon hour. Anna led Effie off to have her hair smoothed and Darrow wandered into the oak sitting-room, which he found untenanted. The sun lay pleasantly on its brown walls, on the scattered books and the flowers in old porcelain vases. In his eyes lingered the vision of the dark-haired mother mounting the stairs with her little fair daughter. The contrast between them seemed a last touch of grace in the complex harmony of things. He stood in the window, looking out at the park, and brooding inwardly upon his happiness...