Up the moss-grown path, where the rose bushes run wild, almost met, came Anna in a spotless white gown, with the flush of her early morning walk in her cheeks, and something of the brightness of it in her eyes. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag.

She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage. By the side of her plate was a small key. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. There was one letter. One only.

She opened and read it at once. It was dated from the House of Commons on the previous day.

She set the letter down, and drew from her pocket another with a foreign post mark which had come the day before. This one too she read.

Anna’s eyes were a little dim as she poured out her coffee, and the laugh she attempted was not altogether a success.

“This is all very well,” she said, “but two out of the three are rank deserters—and if the papers tell the truth the third is as bad. I believe I am doomed to be an old maid.”

She finished her breakfast and strolled out across the garden with the letters still in her hand. Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. Arrived in the plantation she sat down with her back against a tree trunk.

Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. She struggled against it quite uselessly. She knew very well that a new thing was stirring in her. The period of repression was over. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. He will not come. He cannot.

And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes. So he found her when he came round the corner of the spinney.

“Anna,” he cried eagerly.

She held out her arms to him and smiled.

“And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?”

“Deserters,” she answered, laughing. “It is you alone, Nigel, who have saved me from being an old maid. Here are their letters.”

He took them from her and read them. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her.

“So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving.”

“Please tell me why?” she asked.

“Do you need me to tell you? You have tasted the luxury of power. You have made your public, you are already a personage. And I want you for myself—for my wife.”

She took his hand and smiled upon him.

“Don’t you understand, Nigel,” she said softly, “that it was precisely for this I have worked so hard. It is just the aim I have had in view all the time. I wanted to have something to give up. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua.”

“Then you will really give it all up!” he exclaimed.

She laughed.

“When we go indoors I will show you the offers I have refused,” she answered. “They have all been trying to turn my head. I think that nearly every manager in London has made me an offer. My reply to all of them has been the same. My engagement at the ‘Garrick’ terminates Saturday week, and then I am free.”

“You will make me horribly conceited,” he answered. “I think that I shall be the most unpopular man in London. You are not playing to-night, are you?”“Not to-night,” she answered. “I am giving my understudy a chance. I am going up to dine with my sister.”

“Annabel is a prophetess,” he declared. “I too am asked.”

“It is a conspiracy,” she exclaimed. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. My little maidservant will think that I am lost.”

They clambered down the hill together. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. Ennison paused by the little gate.

“I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. Here one might live the life of golden days.”

She shook her head gently.

“Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. “These are the playgrounds of life. The great heart of the world beats only where men and women are gathered together. You have your work before you, and I——”

He kissed her on the lips.

“I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister.”

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Typesetting and editing of the original book from which this e-text has been transcribed was inconsistent. In addition to minor changes in punctuation, the theater in London in which the main character was a singer was referred to as the ‘Unusual’ and as the 'Universal'; this has been changed to refer to the theater consistently as the ‘Unusual.’ Additionally, Russell Square, the area in London where the main character resided was referred to twice as Russell Street; this has been changed to be consistent throughout this etext. Otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.