“Thank you,” said Anne, and her eyes were bluer than before. “Did you hear him call me miss?” she asked Timothy almost before they rattled off. “He thinks I’m a girl.”
“I should say he was of a sound psychology,” pronounced Timothy. “I suppose he hasn’t seen Michael following you about, then?”
“No.” Anne drew the reins a shade tighter. “You see, Michael has been finishing his book—he and Doromea, I mean; and that keeps them very busy. I come down for the milk by myself—unless sometimes Gladys-Marie comes along.”
“And Gladys-Marie is——”
“My maid. She is very fond of dime novels and chews gum. I think you will like her.”
“I am sure of it.” Timothy’s gray eyes had bent a little closer upon Anne’s serene naturalness. “Do Michael and Doromea like her?”
“They have no time for her. They are too busy making up characters for the book.”
“I suppose you help at that, too——”
“I?” Anne’s blue gaze marvelled at him. “Oh, no—I am not clever enough to help Michael. Doromea is the only one who does that. Isn’t she pretty—Doromea?”
“Yes,” said Timothy, so fulsomely that any woman would have known at once. “But I wish she would stop being clever,” he added, after a minute.