In the days that followed Anne found herself revelling in the elegances of her life, in the excitements. It was something of an experience to meet Evelyn Chesley on equal grounds in the little drawing-room. Anne always took Mrs. Austin's place when there were gatherings of young folks. Marie-Louise refused to be tied, and came and went as the spirit moved her. So it was Anne who in something shimmering and silken moved among the tea guests, and danced later in slippers as shining as anything Eve had ever worn.
It was on this day that Geoffrey Fox came and met Marie-Louise for the first time.
"I can't dance," he told her; "my eyes are bad, and things seem to whirl."
"If you'll talk," she said, "I'll sit at your feet and listen."
She did it literally, perched on a small gold stool.
"Tell me about your book," she said, looking up at him. "Anne Warfield says that you wrote it at Bower's."
"I wrote it because she helped me to write it. But she did more for me than that." His eyes were following the shining figure.
"What did she do?"
"She gave me a soul. She taught me that there was something in me that was not—the flesh and the—devil."
The girl on the footstool understood. "She believes in things, and makes you believe."