So that was it! Anne didn’t want to marry Mr. Latham, not even to sit in the box! And she did want to marry Kit; and Kit would die if she married Mr. Latham. And Mr. Latham would not marry Anne if all this were as clear to him as it had suddenly become to little Anne. Kit had said that it was not fair to Mr. Latham; evidently someone was making a blunder. Here little Anne’s thoughts became cloudy. Could the blunderer be Anne? Well, this fact was clear: two of little Anne’s dearest friends were miserable, all because Mr. Latham did not know that they would far prefer to marry each other than to let Anne go to the play as the poet’s wife. Now that these points were radiantly clear to the child, it was equally clear that a simple mistake of this kind could and should be corrected. “Do you think Anne will consent to see you, Kit?” Joan was asking when little Anne’s attention returned to the conversation. “She has said that I might see her to-morrow afternoon,” said Kit. “I’m to go to walk with her; I told her that I must see her where there’d be no risk of interruption. I know it’s no use.” “I’m sure of that, poor Kit!” agreed Joan. “Anne is not to be moved.” “And she is dead right!” added Antony. “I’m bound to say I think she’s dead right, and no end of a trump to stick to her principles. I’m sorry enough, Kit, and it seems mean in me to be so happy with my little old lady here when you’re playing in such hard luck, but honour among thieves can’t be more binding than among honest folk. I took off my hat to Anne Dallas when the trouble began, and I’m bare-headed yet, figuratively speaking.” “Easy enough to admire a martyrdom when you’re in heaven,” growled Kit. Little Anne, so absorbed in the conversation, forgot Barbara, and the baby, still uncertain in her balance, lost it and struck her chin against a chair. Her wail aroused Joan to the presence of little Anne. As she rescued her child, more injured in feelings than in flesh, Joan glanced sharply at her small sister, wondering what she had heard and understood. Nothing could have been more blank of other interest than Barbara’s possible hurt than was the face that Anne turned up to her sister. “We played house, Joan, and Babs was my child,” she said. “I don’t think she ’xactly understands, but she played nicely. She sort of tipped over, but not far. I don’t believe it hurt her badly.” “You kept her so quiet that I forgot you both,” said Joan. “Did the time seem long to you, Anne?” “Mercy, no! I was awf’ly interested,” said little Anne, truthfully. “Maybe I’ll be a Sister of Charity instead of a Carmelite; then I could have an asylum. Babies are so dear!” And Joan dared ask no more lest she should hint what, after all, Anne might not have heard.