I could almost hear a sigh, “Poor angel!” go round the room.

The next thing that happened was that Julian sent for me.  He was in what we used to call in the nursery “a state.”

“What’s this I hear about Anne’s being hard up?” he said.  “Living in a nasty flat, and going out to dinner in the cars?” And he wouldn’t listen to an explanation.  “She must take more; she must be made to take more.”

I had one of my most unfortunate inspirations.  I thought I saw an opportunity for Julian to make an impression.

“I don’t think she would listen to me,” I said.  “Why don’t you get Mr. Granger to speak to her?”

The idea appealed to Julian.  He admired Mr. Granger, and remembered that he and Anne had been friends.  Whereas I thought, of course, that Mr. Granger would thus be made to see that the fault, if there were a fault, was not of Julian’s generosity.  Stupidly enough I failed to see that if Julian’s offer was graceful Anne’s gesture of refusal would be upon a splendid scale.

And it must have been very large, indeed, to stir old Granger as it did.  He told me there had been tears in his eyes while she spoke of her husband’s kindness.  Kindness!  He could not but compare her surroundings with the little house, all geraniums and muslin curtains, in which the new Mrs. Chelmsford was lodged.  Anne had refused, of course.  In the circumstances she could not accept.  She said she had quite enough for a single woman.  The phrase struck Granger as almost unbearably pathetic.

One day I noticed the loving cup—­which was always on Anne’s table, which was admired by everyone who came to the apartment, and was said to recall her, herself, so pure and graceful and perfect—­one day the loving cup was gone.

I was so surprised when my eye fell on its vacant place that I blurted out:  “Goodness, Anne, where’s your cup?”

The next moment I could have bitten out my tongue.  Anne stood still in the middle of the room, twisting her hands a little, and everyone—­there were three or four of us there—­stopped talking.

“Oh,” she said, “oh, Walter, I know you’ll scold me for being officious and wrong-headed, but I have sent the cup back to Julian’s son.  I think he ought to have it.”

Everyone else thought the deed extremely noble.  I took my hat and went to Rose.  Rose was not very enthusiastic.  A beautiful letter had accompanied the cup.  We discussed the advisability of sending it back; but of course that would have done no good.  The devilish part of a favour is that to accept or reject it is often equally incriminating.  Anne held the situation in the hollow of her hand.  Besides, as Rose pointed out, we couldn’t very well return it without asking Julian, and we had both agreed that for the present Julian had better remain in ignorance of the incident.  He would have thought it mean-spirited to allow any instance of Anne’s generosity to remain concealed from the public.  Rose and I were willing to allow it to drop.