One wet day in August they were alone together in the schoolroom, reading.  Suddenly Anne felt his eyes on her.  Their look was intent, penetrating, disturbing; it burned at her under his jutting, sombre eyebrows.

“Is there anything funny about me?” she said.

“Funny?  No.  Why?”

“Because you keep on looking at me.”

“I didn’t know I was looking at you.”

“Well, you were.  You’re always doing it.  And I can’t think why.”

“It isn’t because I want to.”

He held his book up so that it hid his face.

“Then don’t do it,” she said.  “You needn’t.”

“I shan’t,” he snarled, savagely, behind his screen.

But he did it again and again, as if for the life of him he couldn’t help it.  There was something about it mysterious and exciting.  It made Anne want to look at Eliot when he wasn’t looking at her.

She liked his blunt, clever face, the half-ugly likeness of his father’s with its jutting eyebrows and jutting chin, its fine grave mouth and greenish-brown eyes; mouth and eyes that had once been so kind and were now so queer.  Eliot’s face made her keep on wondering what it was doing.  She had to look at it.

One day, when she was looking, their eyes met.  She had just time to see that his mouth had softened as if he were pleased to find her looking at him.  And his eyes were different; not cross, but dark now and unhappy; they made her feel as if she had hurt him.

They were in the library.  Uncle Robert was there, sitting in his chair behind them, at the other end of the long room.  She had forgotten Uncle Robert.

“Oh, Eliot,” she said, “have I done anything?”

“Not that I know of.”  His face stiffened.

“You look as if I had.  Have I?”

“Don’t talk such putrid rot.  As if I cared what you did.  Can’t you leave me alone?”

And he jumped up and left the room.

And there was Uncle Robert in his chair, watching her, looking kind and sorry.

“What’s the matter with him?” she said.  “Why is he so cross?”

“You mustn’t mind.  He doesn’t mean it.”

“No, but it’s so funny of him.  He’s only cross with me; and I haven’t done anything.”

“It isn’t that.”

“What is it, then?  I believe he hates me.”

“No.  He doesn’t hate you, Anne.  He’s going through a bad time, that’s all.  He can’t help being cross.”

“Why can’t he?  He’s got everything he wants.”

“Has he?”

Uncle Robert was smiling.  And this time his smile was for himself.  She didn’t understand it.

vii

Anne was going away.  She said she supposed now that Eliot would be happy.

Grandmamma Severn thought she had been long enough running loose with those Fielding boys.  Grandpapa Everitt agreed with her and they decided that in September Anne should go to the big girls’ college in Cheltenham.  Grandmamma and Aunt Emily had left London and taken a house in Cheltenham and Anne was to live with them there.