"Yes—to Blye, or nearly," said Anthony. "The rain only caught us towards the end. But what I stand in need of now is your sympathy and counsel."
She sat back in a deep easy chair, her pretty little hands folded in her lap, her pretty little feet, in dainty slippers, high-heeled and silver-buckled, resting on a footstool. It was a pretty as well as a kind and clever face that smiled enquiringly up at him, from under her soft abundance of brown hair.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Nothing much. I 'm merely in love," he answered.
Miss Sandus sat forward.
"In love? That's delightful. Whom with? With me? Is this a declaration? Or a confidence?"
She fixed him with her humorous bright old eyes.
"It's both. Of course, I 'm in love with you. Everyone who knows you is that," he predicated. "But also," he added, on a key of profound melancholy, "if you will forgive my forcing the confidence upon you, also with her."
He glanced indicatively ceilingwards.
"H'm," Miss Sandus considered, looking into the fire, "also with her."