“My dear,” she said at last quietly, “when you come to my age, your garden, your books, and your friends make a very pleasant haven before you set sail.”
“And your memories, I suppose?” Madge glanced again swiftly at her friend.
“And your memories—yes,” Anne repeated.
“I shall have none,” declared Madge, restlessly. “None that count.”
Miss Page was silent. “Oh! I know you think me an ungrateful wretch!” she broke out, leaning back in her chair and tapping her foot impatiently. “Harry’s very good and all that. But I’m so bored. I’m bored from morning till night. When I get up every morning I think—‘Here’s another dull day, what on earth shall I do with it?’ And sometimes it doesn’t seem worth while to get up and go on.”
Anne watched her as she stared moodily into the narrow trim garden, discontent and listlessness plainly expressed by her eyes and drooping mouth.
She was a woman loved faithfully and with infinite tenderness. If she had allowed them expression, Anne’s reflection would have been translated by a smile and a sigh, both of them utterly unintelligible to the little woman at her side. Both of them were therefore repressed.
“Well!” she said aloud. “I hope you’ll have a very gay time. I’m very glad for you, my dear. Go and be happy. Where does your friend live?”
“Over by the Parc Monceau, wherever that is. Do tell me what it’s like?” she begged, all animation again.
Anne stayed a few minutes longer, talking about Paris, and then rose to go.