“But this house didn’t belong to her then, did it? We haven’t been at Dymfield long enough, of course, but the old people in the village remember when Mrs. Burbage lived here.” “Mrs. Burbage! Yes, I’d forgotten. That was the name.” “It was quite a romantic story, wasn’t it?” went on Mrs. Dakin, vivaciously. “You know it, of course? Miss Page was companion to old Mrs. Burbage for years before she died. She had a nephew, and naturally every one imagined that he would come into the property. But he displeased her in some way, and she left everything to Miss Page. At least, so I’m told. Is it right?” Monsieur Fontenelle bowed. “I believe so.” He laughed suddenly. “When I first knew the house, it was horrible. This beautiful room, for instance, was full of antimacassars and wool-work mats. The old lady had--how do you call it? Mid-Victorian--yes, Mid-Victorian tastes.” “Glass shades with wax fruits underneath, I suppose? Rep curtains and that sort of thing.” “Oh, _c’était affreux_!” he agreed, with a comic gesture of horror. “How Miss Page must have enjoyed refurnishing it! She has such exquisite taste, hasn’t she? But the garden? The garden must always have been lovely.” “It was neglected. Mrs. Burbage was an invalid--fortunately. For the garden, I mean. But Anne had begun to work her magic even then. The first time I ever saw her she had been planting roses round a sundial.” “Oh, in the lavender garden?” “She took me there this morning. The rose hedge is very tall now, and the rose leaves were dropping down on to the sundial”--he stretched up his arm--“from a height like this, above it.” “Yes. Fairholme Court is the most beautiful place in the neighbourhood. Certainly the most beautiful place _I’ve_ ever seen.” There was a moment’s pause, during which Mrs. Dakin glanced towards the sofa, to which Anne had returned. Her green and lavender gown fell in graceful folds round her feet. Against the cushions of dim purple at her back, her hair shone with a sort of moon-lit radiance. The poise of her head, the smile that wavered constantly near her sweet mouth, the radiance of her blue eyes, above all a certain dignity, too gentle to be quite stately, yet suggesting stateliness, made her a lovely and a gracious figure. “Do you know,” said Mrs. Dakin, suddenly, “what surprises me is that the people who knew her long ago, when she first came here, scarcely remember her. They say, ‘Oh, she was a quiet creature. Very shy. We scarcely noticed her. She was just Mrs. Burbage’s companion.’ Things like that, you know. It has often disappointed me. I should have thought she must have been so beautiful as a younger woman.”