But when lovers talk of gratitude it means more kisses. The pale dusk of winter now filled the room, and there was no light except the red glow of the fire. Baskerville would have asked nothing better in life than an hour in that quiet, twilighted room, nor would Anne either; but, woman–like, Anne remembered that there were some other persons in the world besides themselves, and made as if to go, nor would she heed Baskerville’s pleadings to remain longer. As they reached the door Baskerville said: “Think over what you wish me to do, and write me when you determine. Of course I must see your father immediately. And we must take my aunt into our confidence, for it is through her that we must meet.” Poor Anne had not had much time for that sweet trifling which is the joy of lovers, but at the idea of Mrs. Luttrell being taken into any one’s confidence a faint smile came to her quivering lips. “The whole town will know all about it.” “No, I can frighten my aunt, and she shan’t tell until we are ready.” Anne’s cheeks were flaming, and she said, as all women do who have to face inspection directly after a love scene, “If I could but get away without being seen.” “It is easy enough; this glass door opens.” Baskerville led her through the glass door into the garden and around to the front of the house, where in the throng of arriving and departing visitors not even the lynx–eyed Jeems Yellowplush who opened the brougham door suspected that Miss Clavering had not walked straight from Mrs. Luttrell’s drawing–room. Anne lay back in the carriage, lost in a dream of love and gratitude. All her life long she had fought alone and single–handed for the poor, oppressed mother. She knew perfectly well all her mother’s ignorance, her awkward manners, but Anne knew also the patience, the goodness, the forgiving and unselfish nature which lay under that unpromising exterior. Not one point of Baskerville’s conduct was lost on Anne Clavering, and if love and gratitude could repay him, she meant that he should be repaid. And in the coming catastrophes she would have Baskerville’s strong arm and masculine good sense to depend upon. She had read the newspapers attentively, and she believed that her father and his associates would be found guilty of all that was alleged against them; and she knew that the divorce was a fixed thing, not to be altered by anybody. That of itself might be expected, in the ordinary course, to exile the family from Washington, but Anne doubted it. Élise and Lydia would not have delicacy enough to go away if they wished to remain, and their fondness for the smaller fry of the diplomatic corps was quite strong enough to keep them in Washington when it would be better for them to live elsewhere. Reginald, in spite of his weakness and narrowness, had a sense of dignity that would make him keep out of the public eye.