Anne stood up and swept an imaginary hat to her side with a splendid gesture, then let her head droop deferentially and struck a listening pose. Then she straightened her lithe body and turned upon her mother and sister an excited, glowing little face.
“Well, I never knew Kit was in love with Anne Dallas till now!” she cried.
“Anne!” her mother remonstrated. “I really will not allow you to be so impertinent. What a remark from a little girl like you! And Kit? You mean Mr. Carrington, I suppose? Mr. Christopher Carrington? And Miss Dallas? Do you?”
“Yes, Mother,” said Anne, meekly. “I forgot. They all say Kit Carrington; he’s so nice. That’s the reason, I s’pose, and young of his age.”
“He must be as much as twenty-three or four,” observed Joan.
Then, inconsistently after her mother’s rebuke, after the manner of older people with a precocious child like Anne, she asked:
“What possessed you to say that Kit Carrington was in love with Anne Dallas, child?”
“I can see he is,” said little Anne, rejoicing in this opportunity to continue the subject. “He got all red and he’s looking at her about like Antony when you come in, Joan; this way.”
Anne thrust forward her head, wreathed her mobile lips into a chastened smile, and rolled her flashing dark eyes in what was meant for an adoring expression. She instinctively heightened her effect by clasping her hands, though Christopher Carrington had indulged in no gestures.
“Anne, really, I dislike this exceedingly,” began her mother, but her rebuke was spoiled by Joan’s flight to the window where she ensconced herself behind the curtains to verify Anne’s report.