“I leave that to the _bon Dieu_ who made you. He’s responsible, I suppose, for women of your type.” She smiled without replying. “You tell me you’re happy?” he asked. “Quite happy, François.” Again he shrugged his shoulders. “Come, let us talk,” he said, taking her by both hands and leading her to the sofa. “I only saw you for ten minutes this morning.” “Let us talk,” she replied. And in French, “_Ça me fera du bien_.” Instead of speaking at first, he looked at her. “Anne,” he exclaimed after a moment, “you are amazing! How do you manage it? You look younger than the day I first saw you.” “But I was old then,” she returned, shaking her head--“very old. A woman who had done with life.” He answered her seriousness with a slow smile. “Life had not done with you, had it?” She did not reply, and with a change of voice, he said-- “So these are your neighbours.” “Some of them. They are dear people. I can’t tell you half their kindness to me.” “It’s not difficult to be kind to sweet Anne Page.” She gave him a quick glance. “It’s nice to hear the old name again.” “No name ever suited a woman better. So you can live with the inhabitants of Dymfield without boring yourself to extinction? But of course you can. I never saw you bored.” “Boredom is a modern disease, isn’t it? And you know I am not a modern woman.” “Thank God!” he exclaimed with fervour. “The little woman whose pretty head I’ve been puzzling all the evening, suffers from it terribly, though.” “Boredom? You’re very quick, François. You always were. Poor little thing!” she added with a sigh. “Why? Doesn’t her husband amuse her?” She shook her head. “No. It’s one of those unnecessary tragedies of life. They don’t try to understand one another. The material for happiness is all there, and they miss it. He’s a dear fellow. Kind, and good; and a scholar too, as of course you discovered.” “Yes. You have one person at least with whom you need not talk in words of one syllable.” “Words of one syllable are often the sweetest.” He laughed. “You remind me of the lady from whose lips whenever she opened them, a flower fell. Your floors ought to be strewn with roses and violets by this time. But come! I don’t want to discuss your neighbours. I want to talk about you. Do you know that in ten years I have only seen you three times? And you must have been through Paris very often. What have you to say for yourself?” “Twice when I went to your studio you were away. The last time, the _concièrge_ told me you were with a lady.” “Well?” “Well I didn’t come up, of course.” He laughed. “Anne! You are the same Anne. So demure--so discreet.” “I thought you would have married by this time, François,” she said after a moment. He shook his head. “No dear Anne, you didn’t. You know I am not the man to marry.” She returned his glance. “You are right,” she answered quietly. “You have become such a celebrity François, that I ought to be afraid of you,” she added.