“She was Anne all along, you are going to say? Indeed, she was not! She was my devoted, wise, unselfish little secretary, Miss Dallas! But now she is Anne. Don’t you see, Kit? We have made a happy end of the play. I didn’t know how; I should have spoiled it, but she saved it--and me! We made a happy end of the play, good old Kit!” Anne raised her eyes and looked at Kit, gravely, steadily. Then she smiled at him. He had no idea of what that smile conveyed; for that matter Anne was equally in the dark. Kit threw back his head, pulled himself together as he had done on the football field more than once when the game demanded him and he was nearly finished. He smiled back at Anne and put out his hand, first to her, then to Richard. “I had heard something about it,” he said, and his voice rang out cheerily. “I suppose, to be honest, that is why I came around to-day and why I waited; I wanted to know. Wish you all sorts of luck, Miss Dallas, and whatever good comes to you won’t be luck, you know, after all! Congratulations, Mr. Latham! You surely do deserve the best thing in the world. I know what it is, too, though I don’t use your label on it: she’s Miss Dallas, not Anne to me, but there’s only one best thing, anyway.” “What a trump you are, Kit Carrington!” cried Richard, jumping up and seizing Kit’s hands delightedly. “Why, you’re a poet yourself! That had the ring of imagination and beauty! Sit down. You’re here to lunch, you know.” “Sorry, but I’m not, thanks,” said Kit; he could not wait to escape. “I’m on my way to Paul’s, Antony Paul’s. Miss Abercrombie bought a white Angora kitten for little Anne to play with while she’s convalescing. I’m going to find out when it won’t be too exciting for her to have it. Good-bye. Thanks for telling me. I don’t wonder you made a big thing of the play, Mr. Latham. Good-bye, Miss Dallas.” Kit hastened out of the door, thankful to get into the air, yet tortured in leaving Anne with her betrothed. If he could have seen how gently Richard touched her hair and let her take the low Greek stool on which she sat to read to him; how tight he clasped his hands lest he forget and draw her to him where he hungered to have her, Kit would have been a little consoled. Richard knew that Anne shrank from a caress. He loved her for it; it seemed to him part of that rare quality of soul for which he adored her. It was too soon, he was still too new to the wonder of the happiness that had fallen upon him when he was schooling himself to do without it, to miss in Anne the warmth that would have glowed in her had she loved Richard as he loved her. Thus far Richard was content, and waited as a worshipper to become a lover. Kit walked fast to the Berkleys’; he had decided to go there first. Very likely Joan was at her mother’s, admiring little Anne’s progress.