Upstairs in her sitting-room, that afternoon, she was thinking of these things. The morning mists had turned to rain, compelling the postponement of an excursion in which the whole party were to have joined. Effie, with her governess, had been despatched in the motor to do some shopping at Francheuil; and Anna had promised Darrow to join him, later in the afternoon, for a quick walk in the rain. He had gone to his room after luncheon to get some belated letters off his conscience; and when he had left her she had continued to sit in the same place, her hands crossed on her knees, her head slightly bent, in an attitude of brooding retrospection. As she looked back at her past life, it seemed to her to have consisted of one ceaseless effort to pack into each hour enough to fill out its slack folds; but now each moment was like a miser’s bag stretched to bursting with pure gold. She was roused by the sound of Owen’s step in the gallery outside her room. It paused at her door and in answer to his knock she called out “Come in!” As the door closed behind him she was struck by his look of pale excitement, and an impulse of compunction made her say: “You’ve come to ask me why I haven’t spoken to your grandmother!” He sent about him a glance vaguely reminding her of the strange look with which Sophy Viner had swept the room the night before; then his brilliant eyes came back to her. “I’ve spoken to her myself,” he said. Anna started up, incredulous. “You’ve spoken to her? When?” “Just now. I left her to come here.” Anna’s first feeling was one of annoyance. There was really something comically incongruous in this boyish surrender to impulse on the part of a young man so eager to assume the responsibilities of life. She looked at him with a faintly veiled amusement. “You asked me to help you and I promised you I would. It was hardly worth while to work out such an elaborate plan of action if you intended to take the matter out of my hands without telling me.” “Oh, don’t take that tone with me!” he broke out, almost angrily. “That tone? What tone?” She stared at his quivering face. “I might,” she pursued, still half-laughing, “more properly make that request of YOU!” Owen reddened and his vehemence suddenly subsided. “I meant that I HAD to speak--that’s all. You don’t give me a chance to explain...” She looked at him gently, wondering a little at her own impatience. “Owen! Don’t I always want to give you every chance? It’s because I DO that I wanted to talk to your grandmother first--that I was waiting and watching for the right moment...” “The right moment? So was I. That’s why I’ve spoken.” His voice rose again and took the sharp edge it had in moments of high pressure. His step-mother turned away and seated herself in her sofa-corner. “Oh, my dear, it’s not a privilege to quarrel over! You’ve taken a load off my shoulders. Sit down and tell me all about it.” He stood before her, irresolute. “I can’t sit down,” he said.