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Anne thrust forward her head, wreathed her mobile lips into a chastened smile, and rolled her flashing dark eyes in what was meant for an adoring expression. She instinctively heightened her effect by clasping her hands, though Christopher Carrington had indulged in no gestures.

“Anne, really, I dislike this exceedingly,” began her mother, but her rebuke was spoiled by Joan’s flight to the window where she ensconced herself behind the curtains to verify Anne’s report.

Mrs. Berkley had a sense of humour that asserted itself at unsuitable times. She chuckled now.

“Sister Anne, Sister Anne, hast thou really espied Romance from thy window?” she murmured. “Sister Anne, is thy report true of what approaches? But, alas for your little sister Anne’s training, Joan! I can’t join you; they would see me! What do you make out, Joan?”

Joan waved her hand behind her back, signalling to her mother to let her have Sister Anne’s watch tower undisturbed for a few moments.

At last she turned away and came over to her mother, Anne with her; Anne had been frankly watching the conversation in the street, untrammelled by the handicap of adult years.