“Love has gone out of fashion in England, and the new wisdom has taken its place,” observed François. “Its professors are gentlemen who live on grape nuts, and are occupied municipally. They don’t believe in love, partly because a diet of grape nuts is not conducive to the emotion, partly because they are afraid of disagreeing with Mr. Bernard Shaw. You have saved me from belonging to the latter class, but only as a brand is snatched from the burning.” “The simile is ill-chosen,” declared Anne serenely. “There’s no fire about any of the new doctrines. They are all eminently cool, calculating and dull. Dull as ditch-water, and quite as appetizing.” François smiled. “You are a very old-fashioned woman, Anne,” he declared, “and the sight of these things near you is absurd, and even indecent.” He swept them from the table. “Go and fetch your Herrick, and read me how roses first came red, and lilies white.” “My lord shall be obeyed--another time,” said Anne laughing. “How is Mrs. Dakin?” asked François suddenly, lighting a cigarette. Anne was engaged in pushing the end of a trailing green branch through one of the spaces in the lattice work. “She and the baby, who is six weeks old to-day, are away on a visit to her mother. She is very well, and exceedingly happy,” she added after a moment spent in arranging the branch to her satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear it.” She turned to him. “I believe you are, François.” “I’m also glad to hear she’s away, since because of that circumstance presumably I was honoured with an invitation to-day.” “Why haven’t I seen you for so long?” inquired Anne irrelevantly. “I was afraid to come,” he said, looking at her with a smile. “Why?” “Oh, not because I dreaded a scene with you. Have you ever made a scene in your life, Anne? You ought to have done it once at least, to prove your affinity with the sex you adorn. But I don’t believe you ever have. No. I was afraid of your eyes.” “What’s the matter with my eyes?” she asked, with a smile concealed in them. “Anne Page, if you’re going to flirt with me I give you due warning that I’m a poor weak man, and I can’t answer for the consequences.” She laughed. “The baby is a darling, and I’m its godmother. They’ve called her _Anne_.” “They may, but they needn’t flatter themselves she’ll ever be as attractive as Anne Page.” “Her father already thinks her the most lovely creature in the world--except his wife.” “And how are all the other worthies? Still at your feet, I suppose?” “They are all charming to me. My little friend Sylvia, the Vicar’s daughter, sang at her first concert the other night, and had a great success. The vicarage is standing on its head with pride, in consequence.” “And the pastoral life still amuses you?” “Very much.” “Wonderful woman!” “Dear François, why not?” she asked. “You know I am a very simple person.” “Yes. Though you were once the queen of quite a brilliant salon.” She was silent.