I told her of my forthcoming interview with Southbourne, and the probability that I would have to leave London within forty-eight hours. She imparted the news to Jim in a voice that must have reached Anne’s ears distinctly; but she made no sign.
Was she going to continue my punishment right through the evening? It looked like it. If I could only have speech with her for one minute I would win her forgiveness!
My opportunity came at last, when, after the toast of “the King,” chairs were pushed back and people formed themselves into groups.
A pretty woman at the next table—how I blessed her in my heart!—summoned Cassavetti to her side, and I boldly took the place he vacated.
Anne flashed a smile at me,—a real smile this time,—and said demurely:
“So you’re not going to sulk all the evening—Maurice?”
This was carrying war into the opposite camp with a vengeance; but that was Anne’s way.
I expect Jim Cayley set me down as a poor-spirited skunk, for showing no resentment; but I certainly felt none now. Anne was not a girl whom one could judge by ordinary standards. Besides, I loved her; and she knew well that one smile, one gracious word, would compensate for all past capricious unkindness. Yes, she must have known that; too well, perhaps, just then.
“I told the truth just now, though not all of it,” I said, in a rapid undertone.