“Oh, she is Western,” said Margaret.  “How very warm it is to-day.”

“Very, but there is quite a breeze here.”

“A hot breeze,” said Margaret wearily.  “How I wish we could afford a house at the seashore or the mountains.  The hot weather does get on my nerves.”

A great light of joy came into Annie’s eyes.  “Oh, Margaret dear,” she said, “I can’t do it yet but it does look as if some time before long perhaps, I may be able myself to have a house at the seashore.  I think Sudbury beach would be lovely.  It is always cool there, and then you can come and stay with me whenever you like during the hot weather.  I will have a room fitted up for you in your favourite white and gold and it shall be called Margaret’s room and you can always come, when you wish.”

Margaret looked at the other girl with a slow surprise.  “I do not understand,” said she.

“Of course, you don’t.  You know we have only had enough to live here as we have done,” said Annie with really childish glee, “but oh, Margaret, you will be so glad.  I have not told you before but now I must for I know it will make you so happy, and I know I can trust you never to betray me, for it is a great secret, a very great secret, and it must not be known by other people at present.  I don’t know just when it can be known, perhaps never, certainly not now.”

Margaret looked at her with indifferent interrogation.  Annie did not realise how indifferent.  A flood-tide of kindly joyful emotion does not pay much attention to its banks.  Annie continued.  She looked sweetly excited; her voice rose high above its usual pitch.  “You understand, Margaret dear, how it is,” she said.  “You see I am quite unknown, that is, my name is quite unknown, and it would really hinder the success of a book.”

Margaret surveyed her with awakening interest.  “A book?” said she.

“Yes, a book!  Oh, Margaret, I know it will be hard for you to believe, but you know I am very truthful.  I—­I wrote the book they are talking about so much now.  You know what I mean?”

“Not the—?”

“Yes, The Poor Lady,—­the anonymous novel which people are talking so much about and which sold better than any other book last week.  I wrote it.  I really did, Margaret.”

“You wrote it!”

Annie continued almost wildly.  “Yes, I did, I did!” she cried, “and you are the only soul that knows except the publishers.  They said they were much struck with the book but advised anonymous publication, my name was so utterly unknown.”

“You wrote The Poor Lady?” said Margaret.  Her eyes glittered, and her lips tightened.  Envy possessed her, but Annie Eustace did not recognise envy when she saw it.

Annie went on in her sweet ringing voice, almost producing the effect of a song.  She was so happy, and so pleased to think that she was making her friend happy.

“Yes,” she said, “I wrote it.  I wrote The Poor Lady.”