Her white wrapper of cambric and lace trailed after her as she moved. Sylvia touched it with reverent fingers.
“You look so sweet in these things,” she said.
“I ought to have changed my gown properly to receive you. But I was reading, and too lazy to move.”
Sylvia picked up the book which lay on the sofa.
“French, I see by the yellow cover.” She began to turn over the leaves, and suddenly laughed.
“How like you to have a rose-leaf for a book-marker! I should put in a hairpin, or something equally ugly. I wish I could read French easily, then you would lend me all your books, wouldn’t you, Miss Page?”
“Not all of them,” returned Anne, smiling.
“Why not? I’m sure you haven’t got stupid ideas about proper reading for young girls, and all that sort of thing,” declared Sylvia, petulantly.
“I’ve got ideas on the subject, stupid or otherwise. Tea, please Burks. We’ll have it up here. And bring the pink tea-service. It goes so nicely with this room,” she explained to Sylvia in parenthesis.
“Do tell me why you wouldn’t lend me all your novels?” the girl persisted.