"If I get lost it will be my first adventure."
Marie-Louise turned and took a good look at this girl who made so much out of nothing. Then she said, "Therese will show you. And you can dress at once for dinner. I am not going down."
"Well, there's your father, you know, and your--mother. And I'm a country mouse."
Their eyes met. Marie-Louise had a sudden feeling that there was no gulf between them of years or of authority.
"What shall I call you?" she asked. "I won't say Miss Warfield."
"He writes books, and he is going blind. He wrote 'Three Souls.'"
Marie-Louise stared. "Oh, do you know him? I loved his book."
"Would you like to know how he came to write it?"
Some instinct told Marie-Louise that argument would be useless.
"I'll dress, too, and come down. Is Dr. Dicky going to be at dinner?"
"No. He had to go back at once. He is very busy."
Marie-Louise slipped out of bed. "Therese," she called, "come and dress me, after you have shown Miss Warfield the way."
Anne never forgot the moment of entrance into the great dining-room. There were just four of them. Dr. Austin and his wife, herself and Marie-Louise. But for these four there was a formality transcending anything in Anne's experience. Carved marble, tapestry, liveried servants, a massive table with fruit piled high in a Sheffield basket.
The people were dwarfed by the room. It was as if the house had been built for giants, and had been divorced from its original purpose. Anne, walking with Marie-Louise, wondered whimsically if there were any ceilings or whether the roof touched the stars.
Mrs. Austin was supported by her husband. She was a little woman with gray hair. She wore pearls and silver. Anne was in white. Marie-Louise in a quaint frock of gold brocade. There seemed to be no color in the room except the gold of the fire on the great hearth, the gold of the oranges on the table, and the gold of Marie-Louise's gown.
Mrs. Austin was pale and silent. But she had attentive eyes. Anne was uncomfortably possessed with the idea that the little lady listened and criticized, or at least that she held her opinion in reserve.
Marie-Louise spoke of Geoffrey Fox. "Miss Warfield knows him. She knows how he came to write his book."