“I don’t know.  I will.”

“And you will have written that really wonderful book and never have the credit for it.  You will live here and see Margaret Edes praised for what you have done.”

“Poor Margaret,” said Annie.  “I must go now.  I know I can trust you never to speak.”

“Of course, but I do not think it right.”

“I don’t care whether it is right or not,” said Annie.  “It must never be known.”

“You are better than I am,” said Alice as she rang the bell, which was presently answered.  “Peter has gone home for the night, Marie said,” Alice told Annie, “but Marie and I will walk home with you.”

“Alice, it is only a step.”

“I know, but it is late.”

“It is not much after ten, and—­I would rather go alone, if you don’t mind, Alice.  I want to get settled a little before Aunt Harriet sees me.  I can do it better alone.”

Alice laughed.  “Well,” she said, “Marie and I will stand on the front porch until you are out of sight from there and then we will go to the front gate.  We can see nearly to your house and we can hear if you call.”

It was a beautiful night.  The moon was high in a sky which was perceptibly blue.  In the west was still a faint glow, which was like a memory of a cowslip sunset.  The street and the white house-front were plumy with soft tree shadows wavering in a gentle wind.  Annie was glad when she was alone in the night.  She needed a moment for solitariness and readjustment since one of the strongest readjustments on earth faced her—­the realisation that what she had loved was not.  She did not walk rapidly but lingered along the road.  She was thankful that neither of her aunts had been to the annual meeting.  She would not need to account for her time so closely.  Suddenly she heard a voice, quite a loud voice, a man’s, with a music of gladness in it.  Annie knew instinctively whose it was, and she stepped quickly upon a lawn and stood behind a clump of trees.  A man and woman passed her—­Margaret Edes and her husband—­and Wilbur was saying in his glad, loving voice, “To think you should have done such a thing, Margaret, my dear, you will never know how proud I am of you.”

Annie heard Margaret’s voice in a whisper hushing Wilbur.  “You speak so loud, dear,” said Margaret, “everybody will hear you.”

“I don’t care if they do,” said Wilbur.  “I should like to proclaim it from the housetops.”  Then they passed and the rose scent of Margaret’s garments was in Annie’s face.  She was glad that Margaret had hushed her husband.  She argued that it proved some little sense of shame, but oh, when all alone with her own husband, she had made no disclaimer.  Annie came out from her hiding and went on.  The Edes ahead of her melted into the shadows but she could still hear Wilbur’s glad voice.  The gladness in it made her pity Margaret more.  She thought how horrible it must be to deceive love like that, to hear that joyful tone, and know it all undeserved.  Then suddenly she heard footsteps behind and walked to one side to allow whoever it was to pass, but a man’s voice said:  “Good evening, Miss Eustace,” and Von Rosen had joined her.  He had in truth been waiting like any village beau near Alice Mendon’s house for the chance of her emerging alone.