She sighed gently.
"My sister," she murmured, "is so independent. She is Bohemian to the
finger-tips. She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned."
Sir John smiled and congratulated himself upon his insight. He was so
seldom wrong.
"The next question, Miss Anna," he said, "is how am I to help you? I
am wholly at your disposal."
She looked up at him quickly. Her expression was a little changed,
less innocent, more discerning.
"Anna!" she repeated. "How do you know--why do you think that my name
is Anna?" He smiled in a quietly superior way.
"I think," he said, "that I am right. I am very good at guessing
names."
"I am really curious," she persisted. "You must have heard--have
you--oh, tell me, won't you?" she begged. "Have you heard things?"
The tears stood in her eyes. She leaned a little towards him. Nothing
but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible
constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but
unmistakable evidence of his sympathy.
"I am afraid," he said gravely, "that your sister has been a little
indiscreet. It is nothing at all for you to worry about."
She looked away from him.
"I knew," she said, in a low despairing tone, "that people would
talk."
He coughed gently.
"It was inevitable," he declared. "It is not, of course, a pleasant
subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture
to suggest to you that your sister's--er--indiscretions--have reached
a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity."
She covered her face with her hands.
"It--it--must come," she faltered.
"I do not lay claim," he continued, "to any remarkable amount of
insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your
present cause of distress."
"You are wonderful!" she murmured.
He smiled complacently.
"Not at all. This is simply a chapter of coincidences. Now what I want
you to feel is this. I want you to feel that you have found a friend
who has a strong desire to be of service to you. Treat me as an elder
brother, if you like. He is here by your side. How can he help you?"
She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall,
carpet-merchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous,
deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Perhaps the Parisian
atmosphere had affected him. He leaned towards her, laid his hand
tenderly upon hers.