On the evening on which this story opens the two women were sitting in the drawing-room, chatting. They had finished tea; and Anastatia, with the aid of a lump of sugar, a spoon, and some crumbled cake, was illustrating the method by which she had got out of the rough on the fifth at Squashy Hollow.
“You’re wonderful!” said Jane, admiringly. “And such a good influence for Braid! You’ll give him his lesson to-morrow afternoon as usual?”
“I shall have to make it the morning,” said Anastatia. “I’ve promised to meet a man in town in the afternoon.”
As she spoke there came into her face a look so soft and dreamy that it aroused Jane as if a bradawl had been driven into her leg. As her history has already shown, there was a strong streak of romance in Jane Bates.
“Who is he?” she asked, excitedly.
“A man I met last summer,” said Anastatia.
And she sighed with such abandon that Jane could no longer hold in check her womanly nosiness.
“Do you love him?” she cried.
“Like bricks,” whispered Anastatia.
“Does he love you?”