“Oh, me!” sighed little Anne. “Nothing keeps right on. Heaven is best. I don’t want you to go!”
Richard and Ted Wilberforce, with little Anne, went to the manager’s room.
Anne and Kit were waiting there.
Richard took Kit’s outstretched hand in both of his and held it. They talked earnestly for a few minutes, while Ted talked to his cousin. Anne was nervously fighting back her tears and Ted was evidently reassuring her.
Richard turned from Kit and crossed over to her.
“We are the only ones who know how much of ‛The Guerdon’ is yours, patient little collaborator!” he said. “I shall not see you till spring. Ted and I have decided upon Rome in February. Then Cleavedge for us both! Will you make a room for me in the new home which you’re to begin at Easter? Kit says ‛Yes!’ Will Kit’s wife also welcome me?”
“Oh, dear Richard, who so beloved or so welcome?” Anne cried.
“Good-bye, then, for a time. I am content. What a night! And how much of it due to you! I’m a lucky poet! Good-bye, dearest of women.” Richard took Anne’s hand, held it for a moment, then relinquished it, laying it down amid the folds of her skirt with a tiny smile. But his lips had grown white, and the movement was like laying down a dead, not a living hand. The three adults watching him knew that he then bade farewell forever to Anne Dallas, whom he should always love.
Then he turned to little Anne.
“And good-bye to you, little Anne, darling, but only for a half year!” he said.