“Happy hit, she likes them! But she wants you to come, too.”
Wareham hesitated—went—with a shrug at his own weakness. Anne pushed a camp stool in front of her.
“Sit there. Mr Forbes, please carry some to Mrs Ravenhill. They are delicious.”
As he went off obediently, Wareham said—“You are unkind.”
“No; he is pleased. He thinks you are sure to say something in his favour, and jumps at the opportunity.”
“Is that why you sent for me?”
“To hear your counsel—yes. As it is you who have planted me in this quandary, you had better at least tell me what you would advise?”
“That I leave to your own heart.” He was conscious that prudence would have touched the string more lightly.
“You are so uncomplimentary as to have forgotten what I told you, and not so long ago. I don’t own the thing. At all events, it is of the smallest.”
“So is what we see of the moon,” said Wareham, pointing to a slender crescent.