Vandervelde had the horrid sensation as of walking in a nightmare. He wished somebody in mercy would wake him up.
Anne's brows came together. She bent upon Gracie one of her long, straight, searching looks.
"Thank you—for comin'," murmured Gracie. "You got a heart." Her eyelids flickered.
"I am glad I came, if it pleases you to see me," said Anne. "Is that all you wished to say to me!"
"I wanted to see—if you was good enough for him," murmured Gracie again. "You ain't. But remember what I'm tellin' you: you could be." Her eyes closed. She fell into a light slumber, holding the blonde person's hand. Vandervelde touched Anne on the arm, and they went out.
As they drove home Vandervelde told her, as well as he could, all that the little wrecked vessel which was now nearing its last harbor had told him. He was deeply moved. He said, patting her hand.
"It was decent of you to come. You're a little sport, Anne."
For a while she was silent. Peter Champneys, then, was capable of kindness. He could do a gentle and generous deed. And perhaps he also was finding the heavy chain of his promise to his uncle, of his marriage to herself, galling and wearisome. She reached a woman's swift decision.
"I'm going to be a better sport," said she. "I'm going to reward Peter Champneys by setting him free. I shall have our marriage annulled."