a house of dreams once—but it was a palace,” she added, with a laugh, the sweetness of which was marred by a little note of derision.
“Oh, I once dreamed of a palace, too,” said Anne. “I suppose all girls do. And then we settle down contentedly in eight-room houses that seem to fulfill all the desires of our hearts—because our prince is there. You should have had your palace really, though—you are so beautiful. You must let me say it—it has to be said—I’m nearly bursting with admiration. You are the loveliest thing I ever saw, Mrs. Moore.”
“If we are to be friends you must call me Leslie,” said the other with an odd passion.
“Of course I will. And my friends call me Anne.”
“I suppose I am beautiful,” Leslie went on, looking stormily out to sea. “I hate my beauty. I wish I had always been as brown and plain as the brownest and plainest girl at the fishing village over there. Well, what do you think of Miss Cornelia?”
The abrupt change of subject shut the door on any further confidences.
“Miss Cornelia is a darling, isn’t she?” said Anne. “Gilbert and I were invited to her house to a state tea last week. You’ve heard of groaning tables.”
“I seem to recall seeing the expression in the newspaper reports of weddings,” said Leslie, smiling.
“Well, Miss Cornelia’s groaned—at least, it creaked—positively. You couldn’t have believed she would have cooked so much for two ordinary people.
