"Anne," said Majendie, "is never anything but just. And this time she was
generous."

Edith's hand was on the sleeve of Majendie's coat, caressing it. She
looked up at Anne.

"And what," said she, "do you think of my little brother, on the whole?"

"I think he says a great many things he doesn't mean."

"Oh, you've found that out, have you? What else have you discovered?"

The gay question made Anne's eyelids drop like curtains on her tragedy.

"That he means a great many things he doesn't say? Is that it?"

Majendie, becoming restive under the flicker of Edith's cheerful tongue,
withdrew the arm she cherished. Edith felt the nervousness of the
movement; her glance turned from her brother's face to Anne's, rested
there for a tense moment, and then veiled itself.

At that moment they both knew that Edith had abandoned her glad
assumption of their happiness. The blessings of them all were upon Nanna
as she came in with the tea-tray.

Nanna was sly and shy and ceremonial in her bearing, but under it there
lurked the privileged audacity of the old servant, and (as poor Majendie
perceived) the secret, terrifying gaiety of the hymeneal devotee. The
faint sound of giggling on the staircase penetrated to the room. It was