“I expected that,” said Anthony gravely. “I expected it even sooner. But I am prepared.”
She sat watching him curiously as he slowly drew from his breast-pocket a tiny leather case, and gazed at it precisely as a lover might be expected to gaze at his lady’s image before jealously surrendering it into other hands. She had never seen Anthony Robeson look at any photograph except her own with just that expression. She had often wondered if he ever would. She had recommended this course of procedure to him many times, usually after once more gently refusing to marry him. She had begun at last to doubt whether it would ever be possible to divert Tony’s mind from its long-sought object. But that trip to San Francisco, and the months he had spent there in the interests of the firm he served, had evidently brought about the desired change. She had not seen him since his return until to-day, when he had run up into the country where was the Marcy summer home, to tell her, as she now understood, his news and to make his somewhat extraordinary request.
She accepted the photograph with a smile, and studied it with attention.
“Oh, but isn’t she pretty?” she cried warmly—and generously, for she was thinking as she looked how much prettier was Miss Langham than Miss Marcy.
“Isn’t she?” agreed Anthony with enthusiasm.
“Lovely. What eyes! And what a dear mouth!”
“You’re right.”
“She looks clever, too.”
“She is.”
“How tall is she?”