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Anne Dallas and Kit turned down the street in the May sunshine, with constraint between them that both found difficult to break up.

They discussed little Anne till there was no more to say, even on this fruitful subject, and they talked of Mr. Latham, a theme to which Anne rose with animation.

“My aunt was telling me something that you said to her which I could not understand,” said Kit. “You told her the war had hit you hard, and you seemed to connect that with your work for Latham. I was curious as to where the connection could be. Do you mind my asking? Is it a secret?”

“No, it’s harder to explain than secrets are,” smiled Anne. “It’s not connected, except as I make it so. You see, Mr. Carrington, I have a wee income, but I could make it suffice for my living—that is if I lived so that it would suffice! I doubt you’d think I could. I suppose I’d have gone on living on it, for I’m not an ambitious person; I’m naturally inclined to ignoble content with little ways and little days! But when the war came I—well, as you put it, I was hard hit! It wasn’t as if I were grief-stricken. I had no one in it. But it was as if I had everyone out of it! I mean it took the heart of the things which were most important. I was too young to keep my balance. I got it back, or a new one that I hope, I know, will stand a strain when it comes. When my confusion of mind was set straight, then I knew that I must not sit down in sloth all my life, calling it pretty, misleading names, like ‛contentment,’ ‛humility,’ anything lulling. I made up my mind to use any slight ability that I had and try to——” She hesitated.