“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I stayed with you a little longer?” she suggested earnestly. “I’m sure Robin could manage for a few weeks—especially as he will have Maria Coombe.”
Lady Susan’s quick dark eyes flashed over her.
“Who is Maria Coombe?” she demanded.
Ann laughed.
“Maria Coombe is a host in herself,” she answered. “She’s an old Devonshire servant who was with my mother originally. I believe she came to Lovell when she was about eighteen as kitchen-maid. Then, when Robin and I were kiddies she was our nurse, and after we grew too old to need one she stayed on in a sort of general capacity. I never remember life without Maria until she got married. Her husband was killed in the war, and now she’s coming to Oldstone Cottage to look after us. I’m so delighted about it,” she added. “It will be like old times having Maria around again.”
“That’s really nice for you,” agreed Lady Susan heartily. “Still, I think”—smiling—“Robin will be glad to have his sister, too. And you needn’t worry about me in the least. I’ve heaps of friends in Paris. Besides, Brett Forrester—my scapegrace nephew—is there now, and he and I always amuse each other.”
“Tony knows him, doesn’t he? He mentioned having met him in London, I remember.”
“Yes. I believe they both belong to the same gambling set in town—more’s the pity!” replied Lady Susan, with grim disapproval. “The only difference between them being that Brett gambles and can afford to do it, while Tony gambles—and can’t. I haven’t seen Brett for a long time now,” she went on musingly. “Not since last August, when he was yachting and put in at Silverquay Bay for a few days. He’s always tearing about the world, though he rarely troubles to keep me informed of his whereabouts. I wish to goodness he’d marry and settle down!”
A sudden puff of wind blew in through the open window, disarranging the grouping of a vaseful of flowers, and Ann crossed the room to rectify the damage. Lady Susan’s eyes followed her meditatively. She liked the girl’s supple ease of movement, the clean-cut lines of her small, pointed face. There was something very distinctive about her, she reflected, and she had to the full that odd charm of elusive, latent femininity which is so essentially the attribute of the modern girl with her boyish lines and angles.
“I shall miss you dreadfully, Ann!” she exclaimed impulsively. “I wish you belonged to me.”