"She's a beauty," Brinsley stated, "and she ought to be a belle."
"She's good," David supplemented; "the children at the little school worship her."
"She's mine," Uncle Rod straightened his shoulders, "and in that knowledge I envy no man anything."
As they sat late that night by Nancy's fire, Anne in a white frock played for them, and sang:
"I think she was the most beautiful lady
That ever was in the West Country,
But beauty vanishes, beauty passes,
However rare, rare it be,
And when I am gone, who shall remember
That lady of the West Country?"
And when she sang it was of Cynthia Warfield that all of the Old Gentlemen dreamed.
When the last note had died away, she went over and stood behind her uncle. She was little and slim and straight and her soft hair was swept up high from her forehead. Her eyes above Uncle Rod's head met Nancy's eyes. The two women smiled at each other.
"To-morrow," Nancy said, and she seemed to say it straight to Anne, "to-morrow Richard will be here."
Anne caught a quick breath. "To-morrow," she said. "How lovely it will be!"
But Richard did not come on Christmas Eve. A telegram told of imperative demands on him. He would get there in the morning.