Her round face dimpled in the way Bertie most loved.  She rose and slipped a hand through Anne’s arm.

“Let’s go and look for him.  I know he can’t be long now.  The son of the house likes having his granny to himself.  He never cries with her.”

They moved away together through the sunlit garden, Dot chattering gaily as her fashion was about nothing in particular while Anne walked beside her in sympathetic silence.  Anne was never inattentive though there were some who deemed her unresponsive.

But as they neared the gate Dot’s volubility quite suddenly died down.  She plucked a white rose, to fill in the pause and fastened it in her friend’s dress.  Her fingers trembled unmistakably as she did it, and Anne looked at her inquiringly.  “Is anything the matter?”

“No.  Why?” said Dot, turning very red.

Anne smiled a little.  “I feel as if a bird had left off singing,” she said.

Dot laughed, still with hot cheeks.  “What a pretty way of putting it!  Bertie isn’t nearly so complimentary.  He calls me the magpie, which is really very unfair, for he talks much more than I do.  Dear old Bertie!”

The dimples lingered, and Anne bent suddenly and kissed them.  “Dear little Dot!” she said.

Instantly Dot’s arms were very tightly round her.  “Anne darling, I’ve got something to tell you—­something you very possibly won’t quite like.  You won’t be vexed any, will you?”

“Not any,” smiled Anne.

“No, but it isn’t a small thing.  It—­it’s rather immense.  But Bertie said I was to tell you, because you are not to be taken by surprise again.  He doesn’t think it fair, and of course he’s right.”

“What is it, dear?” said Anne.  The smile had gone from her face, but her eyes were steadfast and very still—­the eyes of a woman who had waited all her life.

“My dear,” said Dot, holding her closely, “it’s only that Bertie didn’t go up to town on business.  It was to meet someone, and—­and that someone will be with him when he comes back.  I promised Bertie to tell you, but you were so late getting here I was afraid I shouldn’t have time.  Oh, Anne dear, I do hope you don’t mind.”

Dot’s face, a guilty scarlet, was hidden in Anne’s shoulder.  Anne’s hand, very quiet and steady, came up and began to stroke the fluffy hair that blew against her neck.  But she said nothing.

It was Dot who remorsefully broke the silence.  “I feel such a beast, Anne, but really I had no hand in it this time.  He wrote to Bertie yesterday from town.  He hasn’t been in England for over a year, and he wanted to know if he could come to us.  Bertie went up this morning to see him and bring him back.  I thought of coming round to you, but Bertie seemed to think I had better wait and tell you when you came.  I hoped you would have come earlier, so that I would have had more time to tell you about it.  Dear, do tell me it’s all right.”