Kit had promised to bring a book from his boyhood’s library, containing illustrations of Canadian winter sports, to young Peter Barkley on the following day. He found Anne Dallas there, in the deep window seat with little Anne. The smoothly coiled masses of dark hair bent over the bobbed, bright ribbon-tied darker hair, as the grown-up Anne fitted a worldly pink dancing gown on the little Anne’s big doll whose serious-minded name was Scholastica. Kitca, larger and apparently whiter, sat on Anne Dallas’s shoulder, her round Christmas-card face set off by a complex blue satin ribbon bow that formed its background from ear to ear. It was a pretty picture, Kit thought, as he stood for an instant before he was discovered, looking at it. He had so completely given up Anne, even excluding thoughts of her as honour compelled, that he looked at her quietly with a slight tightening around his heart, a little quickening of his breath--but not with the perturbation which the sight of her had aroused when he was free to allow himself to go out to her. Anne’s smile was sweetly friendly, her eyes unclouded as she looked up and greeted him. “Are you still in Cleavedge?” she asked. “Mr. Latham was wondering the other day. Are you well? You look tired.” Kit blushed. He had not slept well; he could not bear to recall Helen in this maidenly presence. “I’m all right, thanks: perhaps a little sleepy. I’m going to see Mr. Latham soon. How about the play?” Kit asked. “He has done a great deal of the fourth act; almost all of it. There is a famous manager coming to lunch with Mr. Latham, so I ran away. I don’t want to meet him, and Mr. Latham admitted that I couldn’t talk to him,” Anne laughed, and Kit joined her, thinking this were likely to be true. “Will you take this book to Peter, little Anne?” Kit asked. “Tell him I’ve marked the pages.” Little Anne sped away with the book and Kit still stood by the table, fluttering magazine pages, while Anne still sat in the deep window seat, fondling Kitca. There was nothing to explain it, but with the going of little Anne something had come. There was between Anne and Kit constraint, unforeseen, oppressive. Nothing like it had happened before; each was conscious of it now, each wondered at it, was powerless against it. They had not been alone together since Anne had promised to marry Richard. Now they did not look at each other; for a while they could not. Then Kit raised his eyes and met Anne’s, dilated, marvelling, suffused with light, fixed on his. They gazed at each other utterly unconscious of everything, mastered by a feeling that burned in the blue and the brown eyes, mutually calling and answering. “Anne, I love you! I love you! And you love me!” Kit did not know that he spoke till the words were uttered, never to be unsaid. Anne did not speak, except with her eyes, and they were illumined. “Anne, think of it! You love me! I love you!” repeated Kit, and crossed to her.