“How like you to have a rose-leaf for a book-marker! _I_ should put in a hairpin, or something equally ugly. I wish I could read French easily, then you would lend me all your books, wouldn’t you, Miss Page?” “Not all of them,” returned Anne, smiling. “Why not? I’m sure _you_ haven’t got stupid ideas about proper reading for young girls, and all that sort of thing,” declared Sylvia, petulantly. “I’ve got ideas on the subject, stupid or otherwise. Tea, please Burks. We’ll have it up here. And bring the pink tea-service. It goes so nicely with this room,” she explained to Sylvia in parenthesis. “Do tell me why you wouldn’t lend me all your novels?” the girl persisted. “Because certain books, my dear, are of no use to us till life makes them intelligible. And life can only be learnt by living it.” “I wish I’d lived it then,” protested Sylvia. “Oh Sylvia, there’s time enough. Don’t wish that,” returned Miss Page, quickly. She bent forward and took the girl’s hand. “Don’t wish your youth away. It goes so fast in any case. And it should be the most beautiful part of one’s life.” “_Should be!_” replied Sylvia, passionately. “But is it? What’s the good of my youth to me, here in this dull little hole? I’d give the world to be like you, Miss Page. You’re not--not quite young, perhaps----” “My dear, I’m almost an old woman.” Her smile was wistful, though it was touched with amusement. “You’ll never be that!” returned Sylvia, vehemently. “And anyhow, you’re lovely, and every one adores you. And you lead your own life and make it beautiful. And I’m perfectly certain that you _have_ had everything I want. Except that you’re not married. I suppose I shall want to be married some time or other. But, then, as you didn’t marry it must have been because you didn’t want to. Hundreds of men must have been dying to marry you. I’m sure hundreds are dying now----” “What an awful picture of carnage!” interrupted Anne, laughing, as Burks appeared with the tea. “What a _lovely_ tea-service!” Sylvia exclaimed, taking up one of the Sèvres cups gently to examine it. “But then everything of yours is lovely. This room is as perfect as the drawing-room, and I think I like it almost better. I love the white matting on the floor, and these green-and-white chair-covers and curtains. And I love a room lined with books. What a lot!” She began to walk round examining them. “But heaps of them are French ones, so you needn’t be afraid,” she added mischievously. “Oh, and Italian too! Do you read Italian, Miss Page? Really? I ought to be afraid of you. You’re so awfully clever. I believe you keep everything you love best up here, don’t you? The pictures now--I don’t understand pictures, but I like the colour of these. This room seems more _you_ than all the rest of the house. Though it’s all like you in a way.” “I only receive my _special_ visitors up here.” Anne’s smile flattered and touched the girl.