“To the contrary? How should I? I’m not conscious of ever having heard any one say two words about her. I only infer that she must have pluck and character to have stuck it out so long at Mrs. Murrett’s.”
“Yes, poor thing! She has pluck, certainly; and pride, too; which must have made it all the harder.” Anna rose to her feet. “You don’t know how glad I am that your impression’s on the whole so good. I particularly wanted you to like her.”
He drew her to him with a smile. “On that condition I’m prepared to love even Adelaide Painter.”
“I almost hope you wont have the chance to—poor Adelaide! Her appearance here always coincides with a catastrophe.”
“Oh, then I must manage to meet her elsewhere.” He held Anna closer, saying to himself, as he smoothed back the hair from her forehead: “What does anything matter but just this?—Must I go now?” he added aloud.
She answered absently: “It must be time to dress”; then she drew back a little and laid her hands on his shoulders. “My love—oh, my dear love!” she said.
It came to him that they were the first words of endearment he had heard her speak, and their rareness gave them a magic quality of reassurance, as though no danger could strike through such a shield.
A knock on the door made them draw apart. Anna lifted her hand to her hair and Darrow stooped to examine a photograph of Effie on the writing-table.
“Come in!” Anna said.
The door opened and Sophy Viner entered. Seeing Darrow, she drew back.