“And the village! Thatched roofs all stained with moss. Oh, the colour of those roofs! Cottage gardens full of hollyhocks and roses. Such a church! If you’ve ever seen a really beautiful English village, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Dymfield is one of them.” “And how did you get to know Anne?” “Well, René’s mother had been a friend of the rich woman of the place, an old lady who no more deserved to possess Fairholme Court than she deserved Anne as her companion.” “Cantankerous?” “I don’t know anything about her moral qualities. Her taste was execrable. Anyhow René made his mother responsible for taking us to see the place--a wonderful jumble of every style from the fifteenth century downward. But beautiful! _Mon Dieu_, beautiful as a dream. And Fate was kind. The old lady was ill in bed, and sweet Anne--I told you she was her companion, didn’t I?--was forced to do the honours.” François got up, and began to pace up and down the floor as he talked. “We were all packed into the drawing-room to wait, the first time we called, and while René was making absurd remarks about the sofa cushions, and the bead mats, and the whole chamber of horrors, I caught sight of Anne coming across the lawn. “She wore that gown.” He nodded towards the portrait. “An absurd thing really, but it suited her because it showed her figure.” “Her figure was superb,” murmured the Vicomte. “Yes.” Fontenelle paused a moment. “Even at the time,” he said rather slowly, “I wondered how she would strike René. Because she wasn’t really beautiful, you know. Certainly not in those days. Only remarkable looking, curious, and very sweet.” “But he was struck too?” “I remember he looked up suddenly, and said, ‘By Jove, who on earth is this? It’s some garden goddess or other. Flora. Yes, that’s it,--Flora. Good Lord, let’s run out and burn incense or something!’ “She had a heap of flowers, branches of lilac and hawthorn and things, in one arm, supported against her hip, and with the other hand she held her dress away from her feet. She was moving quickly across the grass. You know how she walks? “Then she came into the drawing-room, and we saw her curious face.” “There it is!” said the Vicomte, with his eyes on the portrait. “You’ve got it exactly. Something between a Botticelli Madonna and a pagan goddess--Flora is admirable. But it’s the sort of face that it takes a painter to admire.” “She had been considered hideous all her life, of course. She thought herself desperately plain. Even when we burnt incense,--and René at once began to send it up in clouds,--she thought we were laughing at her.” François laughed gently himself.