It was the one room in the house unspoilt by modern furniture; left just as it had been in her old friend’s day, with its high-backed chairs of gilded Spanish leather, its heavy rich curtains at the window, and the books reaching from floor to ceiling, their bindings of calf and leather forming the most harmonious of decorations. Simultaneously, the men uttered exclamations of delight. Fontenelle rushed to one of the shelves, and became absorbed in the titles of the books which he read aloud, calling to his companions now and again, when he had discovered a treasure. René Dampierre stood in the embrasure of one of the windows, with Anne. “Do you read these books?” he asked, smiling down at her. “Yes,” said Anne, simply. “I read them for nearly five years. But I haven’t read anything lately,” she added, involuntarily. “No? Why not?” Again the colour rushed to her cheeks, and her companion, suddenly curious, wondered what he could have said to destroy her composure. “I don’t know,” she answered hurriedly. “I have been so busy in the garden. Shall we have tea out of doors? It’s quite warm enough.” She left him to give the order, and when the library door closed, François abandoned the books, and crossed the room to him. “But she’s charming!” he exclaimed, speaking in English. “Isn’t it an unusual type? That clear pale face and the soft hair, and the soft voice? I shall get her to sit for me.” “She’s accustomed to be thought exceedingly plain,” remarked Dampierre. Fontenelle made an impatient gesture. “By the usual idiot perhaps. How do you know?” “By her manner. She hasn’t any of the airs of a pretty woman. She thought we were laughing at her just now, in the garden.” “If we made her think herself pretty, _mon cher_, she’d surprise us all. There are a thousand possibilities in that face.” “_Allons!_ I for one am quite ready,” laughed Dampierre. “I believe you’re right. She could be beautiful, though she’s not young. What do you think? Thirty-two, thirty-three?--or more?” François shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. She’s one of the women for whom age doesn’t count--except as an improvement.” “An unusual case.” “Of course. But she’s unusual. I’m going to paint her.” “Tea’s ready,” said Anne, appearing again at the window. “It was in the drawing-room, so I just had it carried out.” She was quite at her ease now, and tea was a delightful meal under the flickering shade of the beech tree. The men praised her French, inquired how she had learnt it so well; laughed and chattered; and finally took their leave, with many invitations to Anne. She must come to their studio, which was really only a barn. She must come to tea at the Falcon Inn. It was quite worth seeing. Above all, they must come back to the most charming garden in the world. “_Pour revoir la déesse du jardin_,” added Thouret, lifting his hat with a flourish, as she stood in the porch, watching their departure. XII