“Quite well,” said Annie.
“Tell me what is it all about?”
Annie could endure no more. “It will spoil the book for you if I tell you, Mr. von Rosen,” said she, and her voice was at once firm and piteous. She could not tell the story of her own book to him. She would be as deceitful as poor Margaret, for all the time he would think she was talking of Margaret's work and not of her own.
Von Rosen laughed. After all he cared very little indeed about the book. He had what he cared for: a walk home with this very sweet and very natural girl, who did not seem to care whether he walked home with her or not.
“I dare say you are right,” he said, “but I doubt if your telling me about it would spoil the book for me, because it is more than probable that I shall never read it after all. I may if it comes in my way because I was somewhat surprised. I had never thought of Mrs. Edes as that sort of person. However, so many novels are written nowadays, and some mighty queer ones are successful that I presume I should not be surprised. Anybody in Fairbridge might be the author of a successful novel. You might, Miss Eustace, for all I know.”
Annie said nothing.
“Perhaps you are,” said Von Rosen. He had not the least idea of the thinness of the ice. Annie trembled. Her truthfulness was as her life. She hated even evasions. Luckily Von Rosen was so far from suspicion that he did not wait for an answer.
“Mrs. Edes reads well,” he said.
“Very well indeed,” returned Annie eagerly.
“I suppose an author can read more understandingly from her own work,” said Von Rosen. “Don't you think so, Miss Eustace?”