I HAVE a little brown cocoon of an idea that may possibly expand into a magnificent moth of fulfilment,” Anne told Gilbert when she reached home. He had returned earlier than she had expected, and was enjoying Susan’s cherry pie. Susan herself hovered in the background, like a rather grim but beneficent guardian spirit, and found as much pleasure in watching Gilbert eat pie as he did in eating it.
“What is your idea?” he asked.
“I sha’n’t tell you just yet—not till I see if I can bring the thing about.”
“What sort of a chap is Ford?”
“Oh, very nice, and quite good-looking.”
“Such beautiful ears, doctor, dear,” interjected Susan with a relish.
“He is about thirty or thirty-five, I think, and he meditates writing a novel. His voice is pleasant and his smile delightful, and he knows how to dress. He looks as if life hadn’t been altogether easy for him, somehow.”
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