Little Anne ran to him and perched on the arm of his chair. She bent over and kissed him gently, in spite of her tumultuous delight. Little Anne always felt that Richard might be hurt if she touched him as recklessly as she did people who could see.
“But who else do you think will be in the author’s box, that’s Mr. Latham’s, you know?” Anne resumed the game.
“I don’t—Kit?” guessed little Anne.
“Oh, no!” cried Anne, sharply, taken by surprise. She covered the cry with a laugh. “Can’t you guess, when Mr. Latham just told you who were his two best friends?”
“’Course!” exclaimed little Anne, scornful of herself. “Miss Anne—you!”
“No, and yes, little Anne!” Anne said. “There will be no Miss Anne then.”
“What will you be? Why not?” demanded little Anne.
“I shall be Anne Latham; the other person in the author’s box will be the poet’s wife,” said Anne.
She went over to Richard and leaned on the other arm of his chair. He put out his hand without speaking and took hers. Anne leant her head upon his; little Anne saw her lips move.
“You’d think she was saying a prayer,” thought the child. “Shall you be married?” she asked aloud. Her voice was awed, her eyes big. “Is that why you won’t be you?”