“Great heavens! We shall have you writing poetry next!”
Bennett went very red. He had already written much poetry, as Minna well knew, for she had purloined and read many of his effusions to Gertrude. She wondered if it would be going too far to quote, decided that it would, and mentally adapted certain verses to meet the new circumstances.
Bennett was called away to take a hand at whist—he was a fair player—and to pass out of the room he had to go by Annette. He avoided looking at her, but she followed him with her eyes, and, turning, met Minna’s gaze, curious and mischievous. Minna saw her expression harden into pride and defiance, and it was Minna who looked away.
The party was very late in breaking up, and as Bennett was putting on his overcoat Annette came and helped him. He turned to her and they smiled at each other. She said:
“Serge is going to make a picture of me. I begin to-morrow, at his studio.”
“I’ll write to you—then, if I may.”
Annette was called away by her mother, very peevish and anxious to go to bed. She caught Bennett’s hand, pressed it to her bosom and ran away.
“Good night,” he murmured, and when he was out in the street, walking home, he whispered to himself:
“Good night, my love.”
With the two crushed roses in her hand Annette slept like a child, hardly stirring all night, smiling. She had prayed to God, as usual, for her father and mother, and had particularly begged Him to bless her love.