“Dear little Sylvia!” repeated Miss Page. “She’s coming to tea with me to-morrow. I always like talking to Sylvia. She’s so pretty and charming.”
Mr. Carfax looked a little mollified. “There’s Dakin thinking I’ve overstepped my time-limit,” he declared. “Come along, Dakin, your innings now.”
The doctor approached Miss Page’s chair, a smile on his long thin face.
“I only want you to show me your latest toys,” he said, glancing at the cabinet. “I see you have one or two new things there.”
She rose with alacrity, and in a few moments they were bending over and discussing a piece of Battersea enamel.
Dr. Dakin, also an enthusiastic collector, was especially interested in the dainty trifles of the eighteenth century, which Anne too loved. It was a period which specially appealed to him, and the conversation passing from the frail things they handled—fans painted on chicken-skin, ivories, patch-boxes—soon extended to books, many of which he found Anne possessed.
Their conversation became engrossing, and Mrs. Dakin turned to her companion with a laugh.
“My husband is very happy,” she remarked.
“No wonder,” he returned. “Every one is happy with Miss Page.”
“And she’s so pretty, isn’t she?”