Sara came into the room. She was in a dark blue dress, and because the day was keen, though bright, she was wrapped in dark sable furs.
“My dear,” said Miss Mason, “I am quite delighted to see you. Sally, bring tea.”
Sara sat down and loosened her furs. Miss Mason looked at her. Her face was paler than even its usual worry warranted. It had lost the under-glow of warmth, and her eyes looked dark and sad.
“Did you have a good time in Devonshire?” she asked.
“Delightful,” said Miss Mason. “A few people grinned fatuously when they saw my old figure skipping over the rocks. But I said to myself, ‘The Duchessa wouldn’t see anything to laugh at,’ and so I didn’t care.”
Sara smiled. “You still remember our conversation long ago?”
“I’ve never forgotten it,” said Miss Mason emphatically. “I fancy if I had not seen you that evening I should have given up all my dreams and have gone back to the old house for the rest of my life. And what a lot I should have missed if I had.”
“And what a lot a great many people would have missed,” said Sara. “You’ve woven yourself into a good many lives. Why, dozens of babies would have been minus white woolly jackets, while several bigger babies would have lost a good deal of happiness.”
“Nice of you to say so,” said Miss Mason. And she began to pour out tea.
For the next twenty minutes they talked of little things—the visit to Devonshire, the donkey-tour, the flat Aurora and Alan had taken, and Pippa at present feeding the animals at the Zoo. Sara talked lightly and even gaily. As Barnabas had said, she was a good actress. It was not till the meal was finished, then Miss Mason spoke on the subject of her heart.