“What interesting people you must have met!” exclaimed Madge, looking rather curiously at her visitor. “I suppose you met him during all those years you were travelling? I often wonder how you stand this miserable little dead-and-alive place. You must have had such an exciting life.” Anne did not reply for a moment. “My dear,” she said at last quietly, “when you come to my age, your garden, your books, and your friends make a very pleasant haven before you set sail.” “And your memories, I suppose?” Madge glanced again swiftly at her friend. “And your memories--yes,” Anne repeated. “I shall have none,” declared Madge, restlessly. “None that count.” Miss Page was silent. “Oh! I know you think me an ungrateful wretch!” she broke out, leaning back in her chair and tapping her foot impatiently. “Harry’s very good and all that. But I’m so _bored_. I’m bored from morning till night. When I get up every morning I think--‘Here’s another dull day, what on earth shall I do with it?’ And sometimes it doesn’t seem worth while to get up and go on.” Anne watched her as she stared moodily into the narrow trim garden, discontent and listlessness plainly expressed by her eyes and drooping mouth. She was a woman loved faithfully and with infinite tenderness. If she had allowed them expression, Anne’s reflection would have been translated by a smile and a sigh, both of them utterly unintelligible to the little woman at her side. Both of them were therefore repressed. “Well!” she said aloud. “I hope you’ll have a very gay time. I’m very glad for you, my dear. Go and be happy. Where does your friend live?” “Over by the Parc Monceau, wherever that is. _Do_ tell me what it’s like?” she begged, all animation again. Anne stayed a few minutes longer, talking about Paris, and then rose to go. Mrs. Dakin kissed her affectionately. “I wish you were going with me. I shall miss you horribly!” she declared. She followed Anne to the door, and stood a moment, waving and smiling as her friend crossed the street. All the bored discontent had vanished from her face, and her husband, who at the moment drove up in his car, thought she had never looked prettier. The reflection was accompanied by a curious dull pain at his heart, a pain to which he was well accustomed. “I’ll drive you home,” he called to Miss Page, stopping his car at the opposite pavement. “So Madge is going to Paris?” she said, as they swept off. “Yes. I hope it will do her good,” he returned shortly. “She complains of neuralgia. Perhaps a change will set that right. I hear the little Carfax girl is going to London to study this autumn?” he added after a moment. “She’s off her head with delight about it. That’s _your_ doing, of course.” “Well, I suggested it to her father,” Anne admitted. He laughed. “We all know your suggestions. When a witch ‘suggests,’ mere man is instantly hypnotized. Poor old Carfax can do nothing now, but put his hand in his pocket and produce the necessary fees.”