Gioconda, that when she first saw the original in the Louvre she was so
disappointed that she thought she would never smile again.

About ten minutes after the pretty creature had gone out, Anne, who had
kept her eyes steadily on the clock, looked out of the window, from
which she could see a small brougham driving up. She called out into
the hall--

'If that's Sir Charles Cannon, tell him Miss Verney is out, but I have a
message for him.'

A minute later there entered a thin and distinguished-looking,
grey-haired man of about forty-five, wearing a smile of such excessive
cordiality that one felt it could only have been brought to his
well-bred lips by acute disappointment. Anne did not take the smile
literally, but began to explain away the blow.

'I'm so sorry,' she said apologetically. 'I'm afraid it's partly my
fault. When she suddenly decided to go out with that little Mrs Ottley,
she told me vaguely to telephone to you. But how on earth could I know
where you were?'

'How indeed? It doesn't matter in the least, my dear Miss Yeo. I mean,
it's most unfortunate, as I've just a little free time. Lady Cannon's
gone to a matinee at the St James's. We had tickets for the first night,
but of course she wouldn't use them then. She preferred to go alone in
the afternoon, because she detests the theatre, anyhow, and afternoon
performances give her a headache. And if she does a thing that's
disagreeable to her, she likes to do it in the most painful possible
way. She has a beautiful nature.'