Anne was engaged in pushing the end of a trailing green branch through one of the spaces in the lattice work.
“She and the baby, who is six weeks old to-day, are away on a visit to her mother. She is very well, and exceedingly happy,” she added after a moment spent in arranging the branch to her satisfaction.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
She turned to him. “I believe you are, François.”
“I’m also glad to hear she’s away, since because of that circumstance presumably I was honoured with an invitation to-day.”
“Why haven’t I seen you for so long?” inquired Anne irrelevantly.
“I was afraid to come,” he said, looking at her with a smile.
“Why?”
“Oh, not because I dreaded a scene with you. Have you ever made a scene in your life, Anne? You ought to have done it once at least, to prove your affinity with the sex you adorn. But I don’t believe you ever have. No. I was afraid of your eyes.”
“What’s the matter with my eyes?” she asked, with a smile concealed in them.