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"You know where the Inn is, don't you, Farvie?" Lydia was asking, as they stood on the stone step, after Anne had locked the door, and gazed about them in another of their according trances. He smiled at them, and his eyes lighted for the first time. The smile showed possibilities the girls had proven through their growing up years, of humour and childish fooling.
There might not be daily banquets of delight, but cool fruits, the morning and the evening, the still course of being that seemed to him now, after his seething first youth, the actual paradise. But Lydia was going on, an erect slim figure in her enfolding scarf. "And you mustn't be sorry I stole the necklace except for Anne and Farvie, if she does anything to me."
"You're a good little sister, Lydia, but you're a terrifying one." "No," said Lydia. "I'm not a sister." She let the enfolding scarf go and the breeze took its ends and made them ripple. "Anne's a sister. She likes you almost as well as she does Farvie. But she does like Farvie best. I don't like Farvie best. I like you best of all the world. And I love to. I'm determined to.
"Weedon Moore feels as I do." "Weedon Moore?" Jeffrey repeated, in a surprised and most uncordial tone. He looked at Choate. "Yes," said Choate, as if he confirmed not only the question but Jeff's inner feeling, "he's here. He's practising law, and besides that he edits the Argosy." "Owns it, too, I think," said Farvie. "They told me so at the news-stand."
"You see," he said irrelevantly, "I want you to have your life." "It will be my life," she said. "To take care of Farvie, as we always have. To make things nice for you in the house. I don't believe you and Farvie'd like it at all without Anne and me." She was announcing, he saw, quite plainly, that she didn't want a romantic pact with him.
Moore is a very able young man, of the highest ideals." Jeff laughed. It was a kindly laugh. Anne was again sure he loved Miss Amabel. "I can't see Moore changing much after twenty-five," he said to Choate, who confirmed him briefly: "Same old Weedie." "Mr. Moore is not popular," said Miss Amabel, with dignity, turning now to Farvie. "He never has been, here in Addington.
When they had got away out of the room and stood close together in the dining-room, as if he were a calamity to be fled from, that was the only thing they could think of to break their silence. "He's got a lovely voice," said Anne, and Lydia answered chokingly: "Yes." "Do you think he sings?" Anne pursued, more, Lydia knew, to loosen the tension than anything. "Farvie never told us that."
It wouldn't do for the colonel and Anne to see her on the swell of such excitement, especially as she had only defeat to bring them. She had meant to go home in a triumphant carelessness and say: "Oh, yes, I saw her. I just walked right in. That's what you ought to have done, Farvie. But we had it out, and I think she's ready to do the decent thing by Jeff."
"We love to," said Anne. "We don't know what we should do if Farvie turned us out." "My dear!" from the colonel. "Why, he's our father," said Lydia, in a burst. "He's just as much our father as he is yours." "Good!" said Jeffrey. His voice had warmed perceptibly. "Good for you. That's what I thought."
He ought, she knew, to be sitting by Farvie, keeping him company, in a passionate way, to make up for the years. The years seemed sometimes like a colossal mistake in nature that everybody had got to make up for make up to everybody else. Certainly she and Anne and Farvie had got to make up to the innocent Jeff. And equally they had all got to make up to Farvie.
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