The lilac bushes were cascades of amethyst bloom; the hawthorn trees were dazzling white, or rosy to their utmost branch. Anne had broken off great sprays of blossom which lay at the foot of the sundial, ready to be taken into the house. She picked them up, and full of consternation and trembling shyness, made her way across the lawn, and entered the drawing-room by one of the long French windows. It seemed to her that the room was full of men, and she put out her hand blindly to the tallest of them, murmuring incoherent words. “I am René Dampierre,” he said. “I’m so sorry Mrs. Burbage is ill. She knew my mother, and me too when I was a child. I should like to have seen her.” The words, spoken with the faintest foreign accent, were quite fluent, and the voice was beautiful, the gentlest man’s voice Anne had ever heard. She ventured to look at him, and involuntarily she smiled, her confidence restored. He was very tall, she noticed, and big, and bronzed to the roots of his thick straw-coloured hair. His eyes were brown. Even at the moment, Anne was conscious of surprise. She had expected them to be blue. But they were eyes which drove away her shyness, and she was able to shake hands calmly with his friends as he introduced them. “This is François Fontenelle, a painter like myself. And this is Thouret, who writes very bad verse and worse novels, and this is Dacier who does everything--also very badly. All my friends. And you--Mademoiselle?” “I am Anne Page,” she said, and to her own amazement, she laughed. They all looked so friendly, and they were not at all alarming. “Anne Page? That is a Shakespeare name!” exclaimed the young man whom Dampierre had first introduced. “Shakespeare?” repeated Dacier. “_Ah! Si je pouvais seulement parler Anglais, mademoiselle!_” “I can speak a little French,” said Anne timidly. “But you mustn’t laugh at my accent.” They surrounded her then, talking a babel of mixed French and English, and Anne found herself laughing with them, as she tried to reply to their questions. “May we see the garden?” asked René Dampierre presently. “Oh no! don’t put down the flowers! I would offer to take them, but if they are not in your way, do carry them. They are just right.” “Oh yes! the goddess of the garden must keep her flowers,” insisted Dacier. Anne kept them uncomprehendingly, since her compliance seemed to please her guests. She was mystified. But they were all friendly and kind, and easy to entertain. She had spoken to few men in her life, and she did not know there were any like these. It was a new sensation to be addressed with deference, and regarded with attention. Never before had Anne felt flattered, and the sensation was agreeable. She took them to her rose garden, and showed them the quaint old sundial, which, at her instigation, the gardener had brought from an outhouse in which she had discovered it, and set up in a space enclosed by clipped yews.