The sign of her delicacy was in her hands, smoothed and wasted with
inactivity. Yet they had an energy of their own. The hands and the weak,
slender arms had a surprising way of leaping up to draw to her all
beloved persons who bent above her couch. They leapt now to her brother
and his wife, and sank, fatigued with their effort. Two frail, nervous
hands embraced Majendie's, till one of them let go, as she remembered
Anne, and held her, too.

Anne had been vexed, and Majendie angry with her; but anger and vexation
could not live in sight of the pure, tremulous, eager soul of love that
looked at them out of Edith's eyes.

"What a skimpy honeymoon you've had," she said. "Why did you go and cut
it short like that? Was it just because of me?"

In one sense it was because of her. Anne was helpless before her
question; but Majendie rose to it.

"I say--the conceit of her! No, it wasn't just because of you. Anne
agreed with me about Scarby. And we're not cutting our honeymoon short,
we're spinning it out. We're going to have another one, some day, in a
nicer place."

"Anne didn't like Scarby, after all?"

"No, I knew she wouldn't. And she lived to own that I was right."

"That," said Edith, laughing, "was a bad beginning. If I'd been you,
Anne, whether I was right or not, I'd never have owned that _he_ was."