"Why not? Isn't he coming to dinner for the first time since—he left New York, and since he broke off with Eve, and since—a lot of other things—and isn't it an important occasion, Mistress Anne?"
Anne ignored the question. "What have you written?"
"Only the outline. He comes—has caviar, and his eyes are on the queen. He drinks his soup—and dreams. He has fish—and a vision of the future; rhapsodies with the roast," she twinkled; "do you like it?"
"As far as it goes."
"It goes very far, and you know it. And you are blushing."
"I am not."
"You are. Look in the glass. Mistress Anne, aren't you glad that Eve is married?"
"Yes," honestly, "and that she is happy."
"Pip was made for her. I loved him at Palm Beach, adoring her, didn't you?"
"Yes." Anne's mind went back to it. The marriage had followed immediately upon the announcement of the broken engagement. People had pitied poor young Dr. Brooks. But Anne had not. One does not pity a man who, having been bound, is free.