She showed them her borders of snowy pinks, with the lavender bushes behind them, and the garden she was making, a fancy of her own, (new then,) in which only Shakespeare’s flowers should grow. “There are a great many, you see,” she told them. “And such nice old-fashioned plants. Rue and marjoram, and lavender, and marigolds. I love marigolds, don’t you? They won’t come yet, though.” “No. They are ‘flowers of middle summer,’” quoted Monsieur Fontenelle. “You see I know your Shakespeare,” as Anne turned to him with a smile of pleased surprise. “And the ‘_daffodils that come before the swallow dares_’ are nearly over,” said Dampierre. “But you still have some pale primroses and the violets.... Now don’t try to show off, François, because _I_ want to!... ‘_Violets dim, but sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes or Cytherea’s breath._’” “You are wonderful!” laughed Anne. “You are Frenchmen, but you know _The Winter’s Tale_!” “I ought to. I have been brought up chiefly in England,” returned Dampierre. “But Fontenelle is a disgusting genius. He knows the literature of all languages by instinct. He was born knowing them. In his nurse’s arms he terrified his relations by babbling in English, Italian, Spanish, Hebrew and Arabic.” Anne laughed again. “Then he would like to see the library,” she said. “I will take you there presently. I’m glad you approve my Shakespeare garden,” she added, with a touch of the shyness she had almost forgotten. “It’s delicious!” declared René. “That old wall as a background, and the mass of wallflowers--gillyflowers, Shakespeare calls them, doesn’t he? And the beds of violets! The scent of it all! It smells of England. And I love England, because it’s my mother’s and Shakespeare’s country.” “You have some of your own flowers growing here,” he added, stooping towards a bed of double narcissus, and glancing up at Anne with a smile. “My own flowers?” she repeated, puzzled. “Don’t you know the country name for these?” He was still smiling. “_Sweet Nancies._” “And in Shakespeare your name is ‘sweet Anne Page,’” added Fontenelle, “the prettiest English name in the world.” A faint colour came to Anne’s face. She glanced from one to another with a look half shy, half pleased, half pitiful. It gave place to a little movement of dignity. “I’m glad you like my name,” she said. In her voice there was a suggestion of fear. The fear that these strange yet pleasant young men were laughing at her. She took them across the sunny lawn, where the beech tree’s silken leaves had still the freshness of spring. A thousand birds were singing and calling. The scent of the lilac hung in the air, and the hawthorns were drenched in fragrant snow. Before the irregular charming front of the house, the men paused, and breaking into French, poured out ecstasies of praise. “_Ravissant! Quelle belle ligne! Que c’est délicieux!_” “This is the library,” said Anne, as the men followed her through the open window into the dim beautiful room.