The sunshine flooded the room, and the anemones, purple, white and scarlet, in a bowl placed on the snowy cloth, glowed with the colour of jewels.
The air was sweet with the scent of violets which almost covered a small table near the open window, and outside, over-arching the city, the Roman sky was gloriously, passionately blue.
Anne sat with her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her open palms, lost in thought.
Suddenly she rose, and rang the bell.
“Burks,” she said when the maid appeared, “can you pack, and be ready to start for Paris to-day?”
Burks stared. “But I thought we weren’t leaving for another month, ma’am,” she gasped.
“I know. But I find it’s necessary to go at once. Can you manage it?”
The maid beamed with satisfaction. “It’ll be a rush, but I’ll do it, ma’am, and be thankful. I’m about tired of foreigners,” she added, alluding thus with a sniff of scorn to the Italian cook with whom she lived on terms of ill-concealed warfare.
Anne smiled absently.
“Yes. You’ll be glad to get home, I dare say Burks, and Paris is on the way. Please give me my writing things. I must put off all my engagements, and write a hundred letters, so I don’t want to be disturbed this morning.”