“You always say the right thing,” he declared simply. “I didn’t know the child----” He paused, but there was a look of sudden tenderness in his eyes. “Well! she’s going away now,” he began. “And that’s such a good thing,” interrupted Miss Page, eagerly. “She will hear and see so much to interest her. She will come back with new impressions. You will have something to work on.” They strolled out of the garden together, and across the lawn without speaking. “Good-bye,” said the doctor, starting as though from a deep reverie, as he found himself opposite his car. He pressed her hand warmly. “You have made me much happier,” he added shyly. “But don’t forget to tell her very often that you love her, and that she’s the prettiest thing in the world!” Miss Page admonished him, with a laugh. “There are remarks which never bore a woman, however many times they are repeated. Those are two of them.” VI The midday post had come while Miss Page and the doctor talked in the garden. As she passed through the hall after the motor-car had disappeared, Anne found her letters lying upon the table. She turned them over, and lighted with satisfaction upon one with a foreign postmark. Her correspondence with François Fontenelle--a correspondence of fifteen years’ duration--had never ceased to be a pleasure to her. She picked up his letter, and went through the inner hall into the garden, to the seat under the beech tree. Several things on the first page made her laugh. François was evidently in a gay mood when he wrote. He had more work with portraits than he could get through. He described his sitters with the light raillery he managed so well, presenting them to his reader with a felicity of phrase, a touch as skilful and clever as she well knew the portraits themselves must possess. It was better to be François Fontenelle’s friend than his enemy, Miss Page reflected, and smiled to remember the rash women who now crowded to his studio, anxious to be painted by the popular if distinguished artist. She guessed how many of them winced in secret at the result, and marvelled that fashion, as well as religion, should exact its willing martyrs.