“Oh, no; oh, no; I can’t!” cried Anne.
Nevertheless, she obediently hid behind the heavy portière that hung ready to shut off draughts from the door.
Kit came in whistling softly through his teeth.
“Want me, Aunt Anne?” he asked, checking his sibilant tune.
“Yes, my dear. I wanted—wanted—to show you a—a statuette I have. It’s behind the portière. Please go over and get it,” said Miss Carrington, struggling to speak naturally.
Unsuspecting Kit went. He pulled the portière, but it was held. He went at it again more vigorously, and, suddenly, it swung loose, as fingers clasping it relaxed.
There, shrinking back against the wall, her face flushed, with colour that came and went, her eyes shining with joy, yet afraid, her lips tremulous and infinitely sweet, stood Anne.
“Good heavens! Anne!” cried Kit, stunned for a moment.
But only for a moment. Then he had her in his arms, lifted her off her feet, and kissed her all over the flushed, frightened, happy face.
“You little goose! Why were you so long?” he cried.