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“How delightful, Mr. Latham!” cried Anne. “I rarely drive.”

“You are a little girl still, my helpful secretary! How old did you tell me you were?” Richard asked, well-pleased by her pleasure.

Anne arose and dropped a curtsy. Richard felt the motion of her swaying body and laughed at her.

“I am twenty-two, please, sir!” she said in a thin treble. “But I hope to be more.”

“Since you can’t be less?” Richard suggested. “Perhaps you can’t be more, either, in another sense? At least you are a good child, and I’m grateful to you. What nice times we have in this rather nice room which I made once upon a time and still enjoy almost as if I saw it! I’m glad that we have long days to ourselves and don’t suffer many interruptions. Yes, Stetson, want me?” he added as his man put his head into the doorway, knocking on the casement as he did so.

“Little Miss Berkley is here, sir, little Anne Berkley. And young Mr. Carrington—though for that matter the only Mr. Carrington—to see you, Mr. Latham,” he said.