The pink colour sprang into her cheeks, and the shy deprecating smile of François’ portrait crept for a moment to her lips.
“I’m just Anne—twenty years older than when you last saw me.”
“Well—it’s magic. I give it up,” declared Hugh.
“Where are the boys?” she asked, turning with a quick, eager movement to her sister-in-law. “I want to see my nephews.”
“They’re out to-day. I’m so sorry. They’ve gone to lunch with some relations of mine. But you’ll see them this evening. I let them go because I knew that you would want to talk to Hugh,” Alice answered. “You’ll excuse me a little while, won’t you? I must speak to cook.”
Her voice—her tone of deference, marked Alice’s recognition of the change in the woman she had once regarded as insignificant, a poor meek creature to be treated with compassion and tolerance; and her husband’s awkward laugh as she closed the door, was sufficient indication that her altered attitude was not lost upon him.
“She can’t help fussing about the servants. Old habits, you know,” he said, turning to his sister. “For years she did all the housework, and she can’t give it up.”
“But you’ve finished with work now, haven’t you, dear?” Anne asked, as she sat down beside her brother on the sofa.
“Thanks to you.” Hugh glanced at her gratefully.
“That money was just what I wanted, Anne. It made me. I only needed capital to develop the farm, and it came just at the right moment. We owe everything to your generosity, dear. And now we’re going to talk business. You’ve put me off in every letter, but I must insist——”