me to
ask me why I haven't spoken to your grandmother!" He sent about him a
glance vaguely reminding her of the strange look with which Sophy Viner
had swept the room the night before; then his brilliant eyes came back
to her.

"I've spoken to her myself," he said.

Anna started up, incredulous.

"You've spoken to her? When?"

"Just now. I left her to come here."

Anna's first feeling was one of annoyance. There was really something
comically incongruous in this boyish surrender to impulse on the part of
a young man so eager to assume the responsibilities of life. She looked
at him with a faintly veiled amusement.

"You asked me to help you and I promised you I would. It was hardly
worth while to work out such an elaborate plan of action if you intended
to take the matter out of my hands without telling me."

"Oh, don't take that tone with me!" he broke out, almost angrily.

"That tone? What tone?" She stared at his quivering face. "I might," she
pursued, still half-laughing, "more properly make that request of YOU!"

Owen reddened and his vehemence suddenly subsided.

"I meant that I HAD to speak--that's all. You don't give me a chance to
explain..."

She looked at him gently, wondering a little at her own impatience.

"Owen! Don't I always want to give you every chance? It's because I DO
that I wanted to talk to your grandmother first--that I was waiting and
watching for the right moment..."

"The right moment? So was I. That's why I've spoken." His voice rose
again and took the sharp edge it had in moments of high pressure.

His step-mother turned away and seated herself in her sofa-corner. "Oh,
my dear, it's not a privilege to quarrel over! You've taken a load off
my shoulders. Sit down and tell me all about it."

He stood before her, irresolute. "I can't sit down," he said.

"Walk about, then. Only tell me: I'm impatient."

His immediate response was to throw himself into the armchair at her
side, where he lounged for a moment without speaking, his legs stretched
out, his arms locked behind his thrown-back head. Anna, her eyes on his
face, waited quietly for him to speak.

"Well--of course it was just what one expected."

"She takes it so badly, you mean?"

"All the heavy batteries were brought up: my father, Givre, Monsieur de
Chantelle, the throne and the altar. Even my poor mother was dragged out
of oblivion and armed with imaginary protests."

Anna sighed out her sympathy. "Well--you w