Though late in the month, the day was fine and warm, and for the last time, tea was laid out of doors. Anne was very quiet and very pale. Dacier and Thouret commiserated with her on the loss of her friend. “But she’ll get well. It’s all right,” they assured her cheerfully. François unobserved, watched her carefully. René was also very silent, and François was grateful for the high spirits of the two boys. They insisted before leaving, that Anne should give them each a flower from her Shakespeare garden. The flowers of middle summer filled the borders now. “Here they are, all of them!” said François. “Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram and marigolds.” “But none of you are middle-aged, so they are not for you,” Anne returned. She picked a late rose for each of them, Dacier and Thouret receiving theirs with extravagant delight. “It shall be buried with me,” Dacier exclaimed. “But not yet. I’ve got a few things to do first.” François groaned. “When I think of the reams of execrable poems I’m doomed to read before that!” he exclaimed as they strolled under the yellowing trees. “Look here! We must really go. I’ve got all my canvases to pack, and so has René.” “But it’s only au revoir,” declared Thouret. “Sweet Anne Page is coming to Paris. _C’est déjà une chose tout-à-fait entendue. Nous la menerons entendre Sara, et Mounet-Sully dans Hernani._” “We shall have her with us before the winter sets in. And then we shall come back next year,” added Dacier. “Good-bye,” returned Anne simply, shaking hands with each of them in turn. She walked back into the house when they were gone, noticing minutely, trivial things such as a little stain on the paint in the hall; a flower that had fallen out of a jar on the window ledge. An hour later--when it was nearly dark, René Dampierre found her in the rose garden. She stood quite still when she saw him coming, and waited for him to speak. “I came back,” he began, stammering a little. “The maid told me you were in the garden. I forgot this book. You lent it to me.” He held it out to her as he spoke. It was a little volume of Herrick. “Keep it,” Anne said. “It’s mine.” Her voice was steady, but her hands were icy cold, and she was shivering. He came close to her. “May I? Then will you put my name in it, as well as yours? Here’s a pencil.” She rested the book on the sundial, and bent low over it, perhaps because of the fading light. “It’s too damp for you out here, in that thin dress,” he said in a low voice. “You’re shivering.” He touched her hand, and she shrank back against the sundial. “Anne,” he said, still more softly, and his voice trembled. “Anne, I can’t say good-bye. Promise that you’ll come to Paris this winter. Promise! You will, won’t you?” He took both her cold hands, and suddenly put them to his lips. It was too dark to see her face, but he heard her catch her breath, and when she spoke, he scarcely recognized her voice.