There followed, for King, what seemed an interminable interval of time, during which he was forced to sit beside one of Anne’s girl cousins—­and a very pretty girl she was, too, only he didn’t seem able to appreciate it—­drinking tea, and handing sugar, and doing all the proper things.  In the midst of this Anne vanished with Red Pepper at her heels, leaving the tea table to Mrs. Coolidge.  At this point, however, King found himself glad to listen to Miss Stockton.

“I don’t suppose anybody in the world but Anne Linton Coolidge would have thought of sending two hundred miles for a surgeon to operate on her housekeeper,” she was saying when his attention was arrested by her words.  “But she thinks such a lot of Timmy—­Mrs. Timmins—­she would pay any sum to keep her in the world.  She was Anne’s nurse, you see, and of course Anne is fond of her.  And I’m sure we’re glad she did send for him, for it gave us the pleasure of meeting Doctor Burns, and of course we understand now why she thought nobody else in the world could pull Timmy through.  He’s such an interesting personality, don’t you think so?  We’re all crazy about him.”

“Oh, yes, everybody’s crazy about him,” King admitted readily.  “And certainly two hundred miles isn’t far to send for a surgeon these days.”

“Of course not—­only I don’t suppose it’s done every day for one’s housekeeper, do you?  But nobody ever knows what Anne’s going to do—­least of all now, when she’s just back, after the most extraordinary performance.”  She stopped, looking at him curiously.  “I suppose you know all about it—­much more than we, in fact, since you met her when she was in that hospital.  Did you ever hear of a rich girl’s doing such a thing anyway?  Going off to sell books for a whole year just because”—­she stopped again, and bit her lip, then went on quickly:  “Everybody knows about it, and you would be sure to hear it sooner or later.  Doctor Burns knows, anyhow, and—­”

“Please don’t tell me anything I oughtn’t to hear,” Jordan’s sense of honour impelled him to say.  He recognized the feminine type before him, and though he longed to know all about everything he did not want to know it in any way Anne would not like.

But there was no stopping the fluffy-haired young person.  “Really, everybody knows; the countryside fairly rang with it a year ago.  You might even have read it in the papers, only you wouldn’t remember.  A girl book agent killed herself in Anne’s house here because Anne wouldn’t buy her book.  Did you ever hear of anything so absurd as Anne’s thinking it was her fault?  Of course the girl was insane, and Anne had absolutely nothing to do with it.  And then Anne took the girl’s book and went off to sell it herself—­and find out, she said, how such things could happen.  I don’t know whether she found out.”  Miss Stockton laughed very charmingly.  “All I know is we’re tremendously thankful to have her back.  Nothing’s the same with her away.  We don’t know if she’ll stay, though.  Nobody can tell about Anne, ever.”