Anne must come to see them the moment she returned. They were all looking forward to her visit.
She put down the closely written pages with an air of content, and turned smiling to the envelope inscribed in the large childish characters which recalled Sylvia Carfax.
“My dearest dear Miss Page,
“I must write to you because I’m so happy and excited. I’ve got splendid plans. Just yet, I can’t tell even you what they are, because it’s a secret for the present. But it means a simply magnificent chance for me, and of course it has something to do with my work. Mother and father will be very angry, I’m afraid, but I can’t help it. It’s too good to lose, and one can’t sacrifice the whole of one’s future because of one’s parents. Besides later on, they will see how wise I’ve been. Oh dear Miss Page, when are you coming back? I want to see you so much, because by that time everything will be settled, and I can tell you all about it. I’m too excited to write any more. Only I want you very badly. Do, do come home soon.
“Your ever loving
“Sylvia.”
Anne returned the note to its envelope with a slightly worried look.
What folly was the child considering? She must write to her at once, and insist upon a full explanation.
In the meantime she opened the other letter, which bore the Paris stamp-mark, and was evidently from Madge Dakin. It was very short, and very incoherent, but when Anne raised her head and let the lilac-tinted paper slip from her hand, her face was rather white.
She was at breakfast in her sitting-room, whose window overlooked Rome.