Sophie put her hand into mine. "I am so glad to see you again," she said in her softest tone. "And dear Mrs. Todhetley, how is she? and the sweet children?" But she never waited to hear how; for she turned away at some question put by Bill Whitney. Sir John came in, and the four old ones sat down to their whist in the small drawing-room opening from this. The children were sent to bed. Sophie Chalk went to the piano to sing a song in hushed tones, Tod putting himself on one side, Bill on the other. "Are _both_ of them going in for the lady's favour?" I asked of Anna, pointing to the piano, as she made room for me on the sofa. "I think Miss Chalk would like it, Johnny." "How well Bill is looking!" "Oh, he has quite recovered; he seems all the stronger for his accident. I suppose the rest and the nursing set him up." "Is Sophie Chalk staying here?" "No; there's hardly room for her. But she has been here every day and all day since we came up. They send her home in a cab at night, and one of the maids has to go with her. It is Helen's arrangement." "Do you like London, Anna?" "No. I wish I had stayed at home." "But why?" "Well--but I can't tell you every reason." "Tell me one?" Anna did not answer. She sat looking out straight before her, her eyes full of trouble. "Perhaps it is all nothing, Johnny. I may be fanciful and foolish, and so take up mistaken notions. Wrong ones, on more points than one." "Do you mean anything--_there_?" "Yes. It would be--_I_ think--a terrible misfortune for us, if William were to engage himself to Sophie Chalk." "You mean Tod, Anna?" I said, impulsively. She blushed like a rose. "Down at Whitney I did think it was he; but since we came here she seems to have changed; to be--to be----" "Going in for Bill. I put it plainly you see, Anna." "I cannot help fearing that it would be a very sad mistake for either of them. Oh, Johnny, I am just tormented out of my peace, doubting whether or not I ought to speak. Sometimes I say to myself, yes it would be right, it is my duty. And then again I fancy that I am altogether mistaken, and that there's nothing for me to say." "But what could you say, Anna?" Anna had been nervously winding her thin gold chain round her finger. She unwound it again before answering. "Of course--what could I? And if I were to speak, and--and--find there was no cause," she dreamily added, "I should never forgive myself. The shame of it would rest upon me throughout life." "Well, I don't see that, Anna. Just because you fancied things were serious when they were not so! Where would be the shame?" "You don't understand, Johnny. _I_ should feel it. And so I wish I had stayed down at Whitney, out of the reach of torment. I wish another thing with all my heart--that Helen would not have Sophie Chalk here."