Any ordinary person would have parried that question by a semblance of indignation or by asking what I meant by it. Anne made no attempt to disguise the fact that the question had been justified. Her scorn gave way to a look of perplexity; and when she spoke she was staring out of the window again, as if she sought the spirit of ultimate truth on some, to me, invisible horizon.
“She isn’t practical,” was Anne’s excuse for her mother. “She’s so—so romantic.”
“I’m afraid I was being unpractical and romantic, too,” I apologised, rejoicing in my ability to make use of the precedent.
Anne just perceptibly pursed her lips, and her eyes turned towards me with the beginning of a smile.
“You little thought what a romance you were coming into when you accepted the invitation for that week-end—did you?” she asked.
“My goodness!” was all the comment I could find; but I put a world of feeling into it.
“And I very nearly refused,” I went on, with the excitement of one who makes a thrilling announcement.
Anne humoured my eagerness with a tolerant smile. “Did you?” she said encouragingly.
“It was the merest chance that I accepted,” I replied. “I was curious about the Jervaise family.”
“Satisfied?” Anne asked.