“Shall I begin at the beginning? I can’t stay to read it all, I’m afraid, because I’m going to Mr. Latham’s. He called me to the telephone, me, myself, and told me to come because he had something splendid to tell me. And I talked to him and told him I’d come, and he could hear me perfec’ly; he said so. What shall I read, please?”
“Shut your eyes and open the book, and read wherever it opens,” said Miss Carrington.
The reading was but begun when Miss Carrington held up a finger.
“I hear Miss Abercrombie coming with a friend of hers. We can’t read, Anne. They are coming up.”
Miss Carrington seemed disturbed.
Little Anne let the leather-bound volume drop in a V on her knee like a red velvet cap, and looked curiously toward the door.
She saw Miss Abercrombie, in her russet riding clothes, come in and run swiftly to Miss Carrington’s side, and drop on one knee, her other russet-leather-booted foot resting on its toe as she laid her radiant head on the old lady’s hands.
Behind her followed slowly, halting midway to the couch, a tall man with dark eyes and hair, perfectly clad, smiling an amused smile beyond little Anne’s analytic powers, but which she did not like.
Miss Carrington, looking over Helen at him, knew that he was appraising the scene with no intention to take part in a comedy.
“Oh, dearest old friend,” cried Helen, her voice thrilling, “give me your best wishes and loving sympathy! George and I——”