him her hand, and said, in her small, soft voice, “I’m so sorry, father is out. And mother is having a day in town, hat-hunting. There’s only me to entertain you, Reggie.”
Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket buttons, and stammered out, “As a matter of fact, I’ve only come . . . to say good-bye.”
“Oh!” cried Anne softly—she stepped back from him and her grey eyes danced—“what a very short visit!”
Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed outright, a long, soft peal, and walked away from him over to the piano, and leaned against it, playing with the tassel of the parasol.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “to be laughing like this. I don’t know why I do. It’s just a bad ha-habit.” And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe, and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. “I really must conquer it, it’s too absurd,” said she.
“Good heavens, Anne,” cried Reggie, “I love to hear you laughing! I can’t imagine anything more”
But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn’t always laughing; it wasn’t really a habit. Only ever since the day they’d met, ever since that very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie wished to God he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn’t matter where they were or what they
