“She is very young. Oh, I shouldn’t despair yet,” urged Anne, born consoler.
“Don’t you think you’ve been hasty?”
He pulled Vic’s soft ears.
“Perhaps. I couldn’t wait.”
“Well, as I say, I wouldn’t despair. Give her time.”
“She hasn’t said anything herself?” He was thirsting for a word.
“No. Indeed, Philippa and I have been puzzled that we have heard nothing from Claudia since she first went to the Wilmots’. We don’t want her to feel bound to write, but generally she does. I suppose this explains it.”
“You know about the accident?”
“Accident? No,” said Anne, with alarm. “Oh, she’s all right. But Fenwick, who was with her, got let in rather badly.” And he gave her a brief account of the disaster.
“Oh, poor child!” cried Anne. “How terrible for her! That explains, of course, particularly,”—she smiled—“because she knows we are old-fashioned enough to be a little shy of bicycles. Come, Harry, it seems to me that you have despaired too soon. Try again, later. Her head is filled with other ideas now, but give her time and she will come round.”