Anne Belinda Read Online Free PDF Page B

dear sweet girls! You know them?”
    â€œI’ve seen Anne—” He got as far as that and stuck; he had the most ridiculous sense that he was confiding in Mrs. Thompson. Resisting it, he said, quite loudly and firmly: “I don’t know either of them, but I’ve seen Anne Belinda.”
    â€œDear, sweet girl,” said Mrs. Thompson a little vaguely. “Dear, sweet girls, both of them. But perhaps we knew Anne best. She was here more—Jenny used to visit her godmother, Mrs. Courtney. And she was so very kind to Delia, lending her books—though I don’t know that it’s really wise to encourage such a passionate love of reading. What do you think?”
    â€œWhere does Mrs. Courtney live?” asked John.
    â€œShe has a flat in town—in Queen’s Gate, I think. She’s a cousin of the late Lady Waveney. She was a Miss Courtney, as, of course, you know. And they were at school together. But somehow Jenny’s always been her favourite. To be sure, she’s her god-daughter, but then—”
    John sat forward in his chair, waiting for a break in the rapid, tangled sentences. He thrust in now with a blunt question:
    Where is Anne Waveney? Do you know?”
    As he spoke, the door opened about a foot; the small blue-eyed person who had let him in sidled through the opening, advanced shyly a few steps, and then made a rush at her mother. She wore a blue cotton frock, and trailed a mutilated doll by its one remaining leg.
    â€œMy youngest little girl, Daphne,” said Mrs. Thompson. “Daffy, darling, say ‘How d’you do?’ nicely.
    Daphne took no notice. She began to speak very slowly and deliberately.
    â€œChristabel says if I come in the kitchen, she’ll go home. She says she can’t do with a clutter of children.”
    â€œOh, Daffy!”
    â€œShe says—”
    â€œHush, darling! Go and play in the garden.”
    â€œShe says—”
    â€œDarling, go and play!”
    Daphne turned, swinging her doll. She made her way towards the door, walking with slow deliberation and talking all the time deliberately and slowly:
    â€œShe says she gets enough of it at home—and there are only seven of them, and nine of us.” She shut the door carefully on the last word.
    John tried to remember how many of the nine he had seen, and was aware of Mrs. Thompson’s restored attention.
    â€œYou were saying, Sir John?”
    â€œI asked you if you knew Anne’s address.”
    He watched her sharply, and he thought that her high, bright colour deepened.
    â€œHer address? Well, I’m afraid—no, I don’t really think—”
    The door again. This time it opened with a jerk and displayed another biggish girl, an inch or two less in height than Delia. She wore a brown knitted dress, which had been oddly darned with blue. It bulged in such unexpected places as to suggest that it had been worn by some very stout person before it had descended to this angular young creature.
    â€œOh, Cilly, what is it? My second daughter, Celia, Sir John. Darling, what do you want?”
    â€œFather says—”
    â€œDarling, do say ‘How d’you do?’”
    â€œFather says, did you write for the sermon paper? Because if you didn’t, he’s just finished the last sheet.” She cocked an impudent hazel eye at John. “Cheers if you didn’t! We shall get out ten minutes earlier.”
    â€œCilly!”
    â€œWell, did you write?”
    â€œOh, Celia, darling, I’m so dreadfully afraid I didn’t. It was the day the boiler burst—and Christabel had just come—and she said she wasn’t going to stop—and Justin fell into the water-butt. I’m so dreadfully afraid I forgot all about it.”
    â€œCheers!” said Celia.
    The door closed abruptly behind her.
    â€œDreadfully careless of me!” murmured Mrs. Thompson, driving a hairpin distractedly into