Then suddenly; things stopped. The reason that they stopped was Murray.
He saw Anne one day in the House Gallery and asked Amy about it.
"How did she happen to be up there alone?"
Amy asked Anne. Anne told the truth.
"I've had lunch three times with Mr. Sears, and I've listened to his
speeches. It's something about the League of Nations. He believes in it,
but thinks we've got to be careful about tying ourselves up."
Amy did not care in the least what Maxwell Sears believed. The thing
that worried her was Murray. She wanted him to approve of Anne. If Amy
had thought in a less limited circle she might have worked the thing out
that if Maxwell married Anne it would narrow Murray's choice down to
herself and Ethel. But there was always that vague fear of some outside
siren who would capture Murray. If he had Anne, he would then be safely
in the family.
She realized, in the days following the revelation of the clandestine
meetings with Maxwell, that Murray was depending upon her to see that
Anne's affections did not stray into forbidden paths. He said as much
one afternoon when he found Amy alone in an atmosphere of old portraits,
old books, old bronzes. She sat in a Jacobean chair and poured tea for
him. The massive lines of the chair made her proportions seem
wraithlike. Her white face with its fixed spots of red was a high light
among the shadows.
"Where's Anne?"
"She and Ethel have gone to the matinée with Molly Winchell."
"Why didn't you go?"
"Molly never takes but two of us and, of course, this is Anne's first
winter out. I have to step back--and let her have her chance."