“Ah, Edith—­” said Anne, as if Edith were a very different affair.

The intonation was hopeful, it suggested some slender and refined jealousy. (If only he could make her jealous!)

On the strength of it he advanced to the punctual daily offering of flowers, flowers for her drawing-room, flowers for her bedroom, flowers for her to wear.  After that he took to writing her letters from the office with increasing frequency and fervour.  Anne, too, was courteous and distant.  She accepted all he had to offer as a becoming tribute to her feminine superiority, and evaded dexterously the deeper issue.

Now and then he reported his progress to Edith.

“I rather think,” he said, “she’s coming round.  I’m regarded as a distinctly eligible person.”

They laughed at his complete adoption of the part and his innocent joy in it.

That had always been his way.  When he had begun a game there was no stopping him.  He played it through to the end.

Edith would look up smiling and say:  “Well, how goes the affair?” (They always called it the affair.) Or:  “How did you get on to-day?”

And it would be:  “Pretty well.”—­“Better to-day than yesterday.”—­“No luck to-day.”

One Sunday he came to her radiant.

“She really does,” said he, “seem interested in what I say.”

“What did you talk about?”

“The influence of Christianity on woman.  Was that good?”

“Very good.”

“I didn’t know very much about it, but I got her to tell me things.”

“That,” said Edith, “was still better.”

“But she sticks to it that she doesn’t understand me.  That’s bad.”

“No,” said Edith, “that’s best of all.  It shows she’s thinking of you.  She wants to understand.  Believe me, the affair marches.”

He meditated on that.

In the evening, the better to meditate, he withdrew to his study.  It was not long before Anne came to him of her own accord.  She asked if she might read aloud to him.

“I should be honoured,” he replied stiffly.

She chose Emerson, “On Compensation.”  And Majendie did not care for Emerson.

But Anne had a charming voice; a voice with tones that penetrated like pain, that thrilled like a touch, that clung delicately like a shy caress; tones that were as a funeral bell for sadness; tones that rose to passion without ever touching it; clear, cool tones that were like water to passion’s flame.  Majendie closed his eyes and let her voice play over him.

“Did you like it?” she asked gravely.

“Like it?  I love it.”

“So do I. I hoped you would.”

“My dear, I didn’t understand one word of it.”

“You can’t make me believe you loved it then.”

He looked at her.

“I loved the sound of your voice, dear.”

“Oh,” said she coldly, “is that all?”