“The sun is off the roses now, and I’m going to give you some to take home to your mother. Come out and help me pick them.”
V
Dr. Dakin’s house stood in the village street. It was a plain Georgian dwelling of a type common to every English country town; a type which admirably combines comfort with a certain homely dignity.
It was covered with ivy, carefully trimmed where the rows of square-paned windows broke the front, and its long, narrow door was surmounted by the conventional classic design of skulls and garlands.
As Miss Page crossed the road towards the post-office one morning late in September, Mrs. Dakin tapped at the window of the breakfast-room, and then ran to the door.
Anne smiled as she crossed the threshold. “Why, Madge, what is it? You look radiant, my dear!”
“I am. I mean I feel radiant. Come in. Do come in. I want to tell you.”
Her voice shook with suppressed excitement, as Anne followed her across the stone-flagged hall to a room on the right.
“I’m going to Paris for a long visit!” she exclaimed, drawing up a chair for her friend close to the window. “What do you think of that?”
“I didn’t know you had friends in Paris.”