“Anne—­you weren’t there when that young chap tumbled.  But I’ve been worrying about it a little.  There’s no question—­there’s no question that she—­that Cherry—­called him by his name.  ‘Martin,’ she called him.”

Anne had crossed to the shadowy doorway; she stood still.

“It can’t be!” protested the doctor, uneasily.  “Did Alix say anything to you about it?”

“She said that,” Anne admitted, drily.

“You’ve not noticed anything between him and Cherry?” pursued the doctor.  “A girl might call a man by his name, I suppose—­”

“I don’t think there has been anything to notice,” Anne stated, in a level tone.

“You don’t?” the doctor echoed, in relief, peering at her.  She could meet his look with a smile, but in her heart were the same thoughts that Cherry had been innocently indulging, under the rose vine an hour ago, and the dream that had been Heaven to Cherry was Purgatory to Anne.  Cherry married, Cherry receiving cups and presents and gowns, Cherry, Mrs. Lloyd, with a plain gold ring on her young, childish hand, Cherry able to patronize and chaperone Alix and Anne—!  “I half fancied that it might be you, Anne,” her uncle added, “although I know what a sensible little head you have!” “I’m afraid I’m a trifle exacting where men are concerned!” Anne said, understanding perfectly that her pride was being shielded, but hurt to the heart, nevertheless.

“Well, it must be stopped, if it has begun,” decided her uncle.  “I can’t permit it—­I’d forgotten how the little witch grows!”

“He isn’t as eligible for Cherry as for me, then?” Anne asked lightly.  But her smile disarmed the unsuspicious old man, and he answered honestly: 

“You’re quite different, Anne.  You were older at eighteen than she’ll be at twenty-four; you could hold your own—­you could, in a way, make your own life!  She—­why, she’s only an innocent little girl; she’s got dolls in the attic; we were teasing her about turning up her hair last week!”

Again Anne was silent.  It occurred to her to laugh at the absurdity of these quick suspicions, but they had already seized upon her with the curious tenacity of truth; already she had accepted the fact that what yesterday would have been the unbelievable maximum of humiliation and hurt was true to-day, and less than the whole bitter truth!

She was not in love with Martin Lloyd; she was not as susceptible as the much younger Cherry, and she had not had his urging to help her to a quick surrender.  But for the first time in her life she had seen an absolutely suitable man, a man whose work, position, looks, name, and character fitted her rather exacting standard, and for the first time she had let herself think confidently of being wooed and won.  It was all so right, so dignified, so fitting.  She had been the light of her uncle’s eyes, and the little capable keeper of his house for years; she had been reminding her own friends of this frequently during the past year or two; now she was ready to step into a nest of her own.