“I’ve distressed you. I’m a brute!” he declared impulsively. “And we’re not all _hommes ratés_, thank Heaven! Some of the men of the old Rue de Fleurus days are not to be despised.” “Thouret, Bussières, Giroux,” murmured Anne. “Yes; they have big names now. But after all Anne, it’s you who have made an art of _life_. You’re the only real success. You and René--who was wise enough to die,” he added. “Talk to me about Paris,” Anne urged. “What is your new studio like? Very gorgeous, I suppose?” “It’s the studio of a popular portrait-painter. Now you know all about it.” “And the Duclos? And Georges Pasteurs?” He began to talk gaily, while she questioned him, and they both laughed at reminiscences. There was no end to her eager inquiries. “How you remember the people!” exclaimed François, presently. “How can I forget?” she asked. It was late when he rose to go. “To-morrow, early I start for London, to prepare for the fuss of next week. I’m glad you won’t be there, Anne.” His whimsical mocking smile met her as she raised her eyes. “I should prefer you not to see your old friend playing the solemn fool.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well! One can’t have everything, and I have five thousand a year. It’s enough to make one comfortable.” “But not happy,” she said gently. “That, till forty, depends on one’s temperament. Afterwards on one’s dinner. I’m very happy to-night. Your cook was chosen with your usual discretion.” She laughed. “You will be coming through Paris this winter?” “Not to stay. Paris hurts me a little, old woman as I am. On my way back, in the spring perhaps.” He kissed her hand. “Most certainly in the spring. It’s _au revoir_.” III An hour after her friend had gone, Miss Page sat by the open window in her bedroom. The room was full of moonlight, for she had put out the candles and drawn back the curtains. Somewhere in the garden, or near it, a nightingale was singing. Deep shadows lay across the lawn, and all the trees were dreaming. Far out, the meadows covered with a light mist, were like a mystic silver-flooded sea. For a long time Anne did not move. Her long talk had revived memories. They crowded so swiftly to her mind that she grew bewildered, and as though impelled by a sudden impulse to seek relief, she rose and crossed the room to a tall bureau opposite the window. Its interior revealed a number of pigeonholes, and tiny cupboards with brass knobs. Pressing a spring under one of these, a deep drawer sprang open. She felt in its recesses for a moment, and presently drew out a book bound in a linen cover. Then lighting a candle and placing it on the table near the window, she resumed her seat. In the quiet air the candle flame burnt clear and steady, and opening the book, Anne began to read a journal begun in her childhood. The volume was an ordinary thick exercise book such as schoolgirls use, and on the first page, in a large childish hand, was written--