Margaret looked at her with indifferent interrogation. Annie did not realise how indifferent. A flood-tide of kindly joyful emotion does not pay much attention to its banks. Annie continued. She looked sweetly excited; her voice rose high above its usual pitch. "You understand, Margaret dear, how it is," she said. "You see I am quite unknown, that is, my name is quite unknown, and it would really hinder the success of a book." Margaret surveyed her with awakening interest. "A book?" said she. "Yes, a book! Oh, Margaret, I know it will be hard for you to believe, but you know I am very truthful. I--I wrote the book they are talking about so much now. You know what I mean?" "Not the--?" "Yes, _The Poor Lady_,--the anonymous novel which people are talking so much about and which sold better than any other book last week. I wrote it. I really did, Margaret." "You wrote it!" Annie continued almost wildly. "Yes, I did, I did!" she cried, "and you are the only soul that knows except the publishers. They said they were much struck with the book but advised anonymous publication, my name was so utterly unknown." "You wrote _The Poor Lady_?" said Margaret. Her eyes glittered, and her lips tightened. Envy possessed her, but Annie Eustace did not recognise envy when she saw it. Annie went on in her sweet ringing voice, almost producing the effect of a song. She was so happy, and so pleased to think that she was making her friend happy. "Yes," she said, "I wrote it. I wrote _The Poor Lady_." "If," said Margaret, "you speak quite so loud, you will be heard by others." Annie lowered her voice immediately with a startled look. "Oh," she whispered. "I would not have anybody hear me for anything." "How did you manage?" asked Margaret.