“Thank you,” said the Vicar, his brow clearing. “I never thought of that.” “Anything else?” asked Miss Page. “Oh well, yes; but I haven’t time for that now. I must come some other day. I want to have a long talk with you about Sylvia. I can’t make the girl out.” He frowned. “She’s so restless and discontented. I can’t imagine why she doesn’t settle down and be of some little assistance to her mother. The girl annoys me. I have no patience with the modern shirking of home duties.” “Dear little Sylvia!” repeated Miss Page. “She’s coming to tea with me to-morrow. I always like talking to Sylvia. She’s so pretty and charming.” Mr. Carfax looked a little mollified. “There’s Dakin thinking I’ve overstepped my time-limit,” he declared. “Come along, Dakin, your innings now.” The doctor approached Miss Page’s chair, a smile on his long thin face. “I only want you to show me your latest toys,” he said, glancing at the cabinet. “I see you have one or two new things there.” She rose with alacrity, and in a few moments they were bending over and discussing a piece of Battersea enamel. Dr. Dakin, also an enthusiastic collector, was especially interested in the dainty trifles of the eighteenth century, which Anne too loved. It was a period which specially appealed to him, and the conversation passing from the frail things they handled--fans painted on chicken-skin, ivories, patch-boxes--soon extended to books, many of which he found Anne possessed. Their conversation became engrossing, and Mrs. Dakin turned to her companion with a laugh. “My husband is very happy,” she remarked. “No wonder,” he returned. “Every one is happy with Miss Page.” “And she’s so pretty, isn’t she?” “The most beautiful woman of my acquaintance,” he replied gravely. “Because she has _acquired_ her beauty--secreted it, in the same marvellous way that from hidden cells a rose draws its colour and its sweetness.” Mrs. Dakin glanced at him curiously. “It takes a Frenchman to say that. But it describes Miss Page,” she added. She hesitated a moment, curiosity very strong within her. “You have known her a long time? Many years?” she asked. “I first met sweet Anne Page twenty years ago, in this very house.” He smiled, a quiet reminiscent smile. “And she wasn’t young even then!” exclaimed Mrs. Dakin, involuntarily. “Pardon me. Anne Page was always young, in the sense that the brooks and the hawthorn-trees and the roses are always young.” The smile was still on his lips, and Mrs. Dakin blushed. “Oh yes, I know,” she began hurriedly. “One never thinks of age with regard to her. I didn’t mean that exactly.” “He must have been in love with her!” The idea ran into the undercurrent of her thoughts. “Perhaps he is still. It would be awfully romantic. And not absurd at all,” she added, as a sudden mental supplement. “Sweet Anne Page is quite pretty.” Aloud, still impelled by irresistible curiosity, she went on asking questions.