And away they went. And Charlemagne, turning back into the library, met Anne Beaumont coming in at the other door.
She wore a thin, trailing white gown, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She looked tired and fragile and every day of her thirty-six years.
"Anne!" Charlemagne said, as if for him all the morning stars sang together.
Anne dropped into the chair where Elizabeth had been.
"I'm afraid I'm awfully late getting down," she faltered, "but—but my head ached."
Charlemagne stood behind her chair, and there was a look on his face that, for the first time, made me ashamed of my eavesdropping. The other had been comedy, but this was real.
"Poor little Anne," he said.
Anne propped her chin on her hand and gazed out through the open door with wide eyes.
"Yes," she said slowly, "poor little Anne."
He came around and took the other chair. "I wish—I knew how I might comfort you," he said.