"Yes."
"I have a chapter ready to read to her, and you ask her to eat with you as if she were any every-day sort of person. Did you know that she is to play Beatrice to my Dante?"
"Don't be silly," Anne said; "you mustn't listen to him, Dr. Brooks."
Richard's eyes went from one to the other. "What do you know of Fox?" he asked, as they drove on.
"Nothing, except that he is writing a book."
"I'll ask Eve about him; she's a lion-hunter and she's in with a lot of literary lights."
Even as he spoke Evelyn was speeding toward him in Philip's car. He had forgotten her and his invitation for the week-end. But she had not forgotten, and she sparkled and glowed as she thought of Richard's royal welcome. For how could she know, as she drew near and nearer, that he was welcoming another guest, taking off the little teacher's old brown coat, noting the flush on her young cheeks, the pretty appeal of her manner to his mother.
"You are sure I won't be in the way, Mrs. Brooks?"
"My dear, my dear, of course not. Richard has been telling me that your grandmother was Cynthia Warfield. Did you know that my father was in love with Cynthia before he married my mother?"
"The letters said so."