Mrs. Austin was pale and silent. But she had attentive eyes. Anne was uncomfortably possessed with the idea that the little lady listened and criticized, or at least that she held her opinion in reserve.
Marie-Louise spoke of Geoffrey Fox. "Miss Warfield knows him. She knows how he came to write his book."
Anne told them how he came to write it. Of Peggy ill at Bower's, of the gray plush pussy cat, and of how, coming up the hall with the bowl of soup in her hand, she had found Fox in a despairing mood and had suggested the plot.
Austin, watching her, decided that she was most unusual. She was beautiful, but there was something more than beauty. It was as if she was lighted from within by a fire which gave warmth not only to herself but to those about her.
He was glad that he had brought her here to be with Marie-Louise. For the moment even his wife's pale beauty seemed cold.
"We'll have Fox up," he said, when she finished her story.
Anne was sure that he would be glad to come. She blushed a little as she said it.
Later, when they were having coffee in the little drawing-room, Marie-Louise taxed her with the blush. "Is he in love with you?"
Anne felt it best to be frank. "He thought he was."
"Don't you love him?"