“My dear child, I am quite sure that not a blessed woman in that club has remembered that sentence,” said Alice.

“I had entirely forgotten.”

“Of course, you had.”

“It would be very unfortunate if it were remembered, because the publishers are so anxious that my name should not be known.  You see, nobody ever heard of me and my name would hurt the sales and the poor publishers have worked so hard over the advertising, it would be dreadful to have the sales fall off.  You really don’t think anybody does remember?”

“My dear,” said Alice with her entirely good-natured, even amused and tolerant air of cynicism, “the women of the Zenith Club remember their own papers.  You need not have the slightest fear.  But Annie, you wonderful little girl, I am so glad you have come to me with this.  I have been waiting for you to tell me, for I was impatient to tell you how delighted I am.  You blessed child, I never was more glad at anything in my whole life.  I am as proud as proud can be.  I feel as if I had written that book myself, and better than written it myself.  I have had none of the bother of the work and my friend had it and my friend has the fame and the glory and she goes around among us with her little halo hidden out of sight of everybody, except myself.”

“Margaret knows.”

Alice stiffened a little.  “That is recent,” she said, “and I have known all the time.”

“Margaret could not have remembered that sentence, I am sure,” Annie said thoughtfully.  “Poor Margaret, she was so upset by what happened last night that I am afraid the news did not cheer her up as much as I thought it would.”

“Well, you dear little soul,” said Alice, “I am simply revelling in happiness and pride because of it, you may be sure of that.”

“But you have not had such an awful blow as poor Margaret had,” said Annie.  Then she brightened.  “Oh Alice,” she cried, “I wanted somebody who loved me to be glad.”

“You have not told your grandmother and aunts yet?”

“I have not dared,” replied Annie in a shamed fashion.  “I know I deceived them and I think perhaps grandmother might find it hard not to tell.  She is so old you know, and she does tell a great deal without meaning and Aunt Susan likes to tell news.  I have not dared, Alice.  The publishers have been so very insistent that nobody should know, but I had to tell you and Margaret.”

“It made no difference anyway about me,” said Alice, “since I already knew.”

“Margaret can be trusted too, I am sure,” Annie said quickly.

“Of course.”

Annie looked at her watch.  “I must go,” she said, “or I shall be late.  Isn’t it really wonderful that I should write a successful book, Alice?”

“You are rather wonderful, my dear,” said Alice.  Then she rose and put her arms around the slender white-clad figure and held her close, and gave her one of her infrequent kisses.  “You precious little thing,” she said, “the book is wonderful, but my Annie is more wonderful because she can be told so and never get the fact into her head.  Here is your work, dear.”