But her philosophy failed to bring peace of mind. For a long time she lay awake, working it out. At last she decided, wearily, that she had wept because she really didn't know any of the worth-while things. She didn't know any of the young things and the gay things. She didn't know how to dance or to talk to men like Richard Brooks. The only things that she knew in the whole wide world were—books!
CHAPTER III
In Which the Crown Prince Enters Upon His Own.
It developed that the name of the young man with the eye-glasses was Geoffrey Fox. Mrs. Bower told Anne at the breakfast table, as the two women sat alone.
"He is writing a book, and he wants to stay."
"The little dark man?"
"I shouldn't call him little. He is thin, but he is as tall as Richard Brooks."
"Is he?" To Anne it had seemed as if Richard had towered above her like a young giant. She had scarcely noticed the young man with the eye-glasses. He had melted into the background of old gentlemen; had become, as it were, a part of a composite instead of a single personality.
But to be writing a book!
"What kind of a book, Mrs. Bower?"
"I don't know. He didn't say. I am going to give him the front room in the south wing; then he will have a view of the river."
When Anne met the dark young man in the hall an hour later, she discovered that he had keen eyes and a mocking smile.
He stopped her. "Do we have to be introduced? I am going to stay here. Did Mrs. Bower tell you?"
"She told me you were writing a book."
"Don't tell anybody else; I'm not proud of it."
"Why not?"
He shrugged. "My stories are pot-boilers, most of them—with everybody happy in the end."
"Why shouldn't everybody be happy in the end?"
"Because life isn't that way."
"Life is what we make it."
"Who told you that?"
She flushed. "It is what I tell my school children."
"But have you found it so?"
She faltered. "No—but perhaps it is my fault."
"It isn't anybody's fault. If the gods smile—we are happy. If they frown, we are miserable. That's all there is to it."
"I should hate to think that was all." She was roused and ready to fight for her ideals. "I should hate to think it."
"All your hating won't make it as you want it," his glance was quizzical, "but we won't quarrel about it."
"Of course not," stiffly.
"And we are to be friends? You see I am to stay a month."
"Are you going to write about us?"
"I shall write about the Old Gentlemen. Is there always such a crowd of them?"
"Only on holidays and week-ends."
"Perhaps I shall write about you——" daringly. "I need a little lovely heroine."
Her look stopped him. His face changed. "I beg your pardon," he said quickly. "I should not have said that."
"Would you have said it if I had not waited on the table?" Her voice was tremulous. The color that had flamed in her cheeks still dyed them. "I thought of it last night, after I went up-stairs. I have been trying to teach my little children in my school that there is dignity in service, and so—I have helped Mrs. Bower. But I felt that people did not understand."
"You felt that we—thought less of you?"
"Yes," very low.
"And that I spoke as I did because I did not—respect you?"
"Yes."
"Then I beg your pardon. Indeed, I do beg your pardon. It was thoughtless. Will you believe that it was only because I was thoughtless?"
"Yes." But her troubled eyes did not meet his. "Perhaps I am too sensitive. Perhaps you would have said—the same things—to Eve Chesley—if you had just met her. But I am sure you would not have said it in the same tone."
He held out his hand to her. "You'll forgive me? Yes? And be friends?"
She did not seem to see his hand. "Of course I forgive you," she said, with a girlish dignity which sat well upon her, "and perhaps I have made too much of it, but you see I am so much alone, and I think so much."
He wanted to ask her questions, of why she was there and of why she was alone. But something in her manner forbade, and so they spoke of other things until she left him.
Geoffrey went out later for a walk in the blinding snow. All night it had snowed and the storm had a blizzard quality, with the wind howling and the drifts piling to prodigious heights. Geoffrey faced the elements with a strength which won the respect of Richard Brooks who, also out in it, with his dog Toby, was battling gloriously with wind and weather.
"If we can reach the shelter of the pines," he shouted, "they'll break the force of the storm."
Within the wood the snow was in winding sheets about the great trees.
"What giant ghosts!" Geoffrey said. "Yet in a month or two the sap will run warm in their veins, and the silence will be lapped by waves of sound—the singing of birds and of little streams."
"I used to come here when I was a boy," Richard told him. "There were violets under the bank, and I picked them and made tight bunches of them and gave them to my mother. She was young then. I remember that she usually wore white dresses, with a blue sash fluttering."
"You lived here then?"
"No, we visited at my grandfather's, a mile or two away. He used to drive us down, and he would sit out there on the point and fish—a grand old figure, in his broad hat, with his fishing creel over his shoulder. There were just two sports that my grandfather loved, fishing and fox-hunting; but he was a very busy doctor and couldn't ride often to hounds. But he kept a lot of them. He would have had a great contempt for Toby. His own dogs were a wiry little breed."
"My grandfather was blind, and always in his library. So my boyhood was different. I used to read to him. I liked it, and I wouldn't exchange my memories for yours, except the violets—I should like to pick them here in the spring—perhaps I shall—I told Mrs. Bower I would take a room for a month or more—and since we have spoken of violets—I may wait for their blooming."
He laughed, and as they turned back, "I have found several things to keep me," he said, but he did not name them.
All day Anne was aware of the presence in the house of the young guests. She was aware of Winifred Ames' blue cloak and of Eve's roses. She was aware of Richard's big voice booming through the hall, of Geoffrey's mocking laugh.
But she did not go down among them. She ate her meals after the others had finished. She did not wait upon the table and she did not sit upon the stairs. In the afternoon she wrote a long letter to her Great-uncle Rodman, and she went early to bed.
She was waked in the morning by the bustle of departure. Some of the Old Gentlemen went back by motor, others by train. Warmed by a hearty breakfast, bundled into their big coats, they were lighted on their way by Eric Brand.
It