If she were willing to pay for it, why not? Whatever happened, whatever misery was in store, at least she paid alone. She involved no one in her debt. A cynic might have smiled at the simplicity of her reasoning. Not one thought of her changed circumstances entered into her reflections. She did not consider that Anne Page the penniless companion was a very different being from Anne Page the lady of great means. To her mind it only affected the situation in so far that it gave her freedom; made it possible for her to follow her own course without burdening man, woman, or child. It was only courage that was necessary. Courage to stake high, and not to shrink when sooner or later the odds should turn against her. She measured her strength, and made her decision. The little clock on the mantelpiece struck three, with a shrill silvery clamour. Anne started, and glanced round the familiar room with a shock of surprise, as though she had been long away, and was astonished to find it there. As she rose slowly to her feet, her reflection in the glass above the chimney-piece also startled her. It seemed to her that for ages she had been out of the body also. She met absorbed blue eyes in a face pale but transfigured by an inner excitement and a great hope. She saw a mouth sweet and tremulous, and a tall figure; very graceful, really beautiful; and suddenly she smiled. “It’s not absurd. Not yet,” was the certainty that suddenly filled her with triumphant joy. XV Early in November, Dampierre burst one morning into Fontenelle’s studio. They worked in the same house in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs, René on the top floor, François two flights lower down. He looked up as his friend came in. “Yes. I know. She’s coming,” he said, without ceasing to paint. “This background’s the very devil. It’s all wrong in tone.” “How did you know?” François nodded towards a side table. “There’s her note.” Dampierre found it amongst a litter of brushes and palettes. “Yes,” he said glancing over it, “she says the same thing to me. She feels she wants a change, so she’s shut up the house for a time, and she’ll stay in Paris possibly on her way elsewhere. That’s all she tells me.” “The old lady must have left her some money,” observed François, still apparently engrossed with his background. “Looks as though it’s rather more than enough to keep body and soul together, doesn’t it?” “Oh, do shut up, and leave that damned picture alone, and be sympathetic!” exclaimed René, irritably. His eyes were bright, and he laughed rather excitedly. “I know you’re sick she’s coming. But I can’t stand your wisdom any longer. I’m glad, do you hear? Glad. Glad. _Glad!_ And there’s an end of it.” “Pardon me, but that’s just what it’s not,” returned Fontenelle. “Very well then, it isn’t. And I don’t care. I only know I want to see her again,--horribly. And she’ll be here to-night, thank goodness, and I’m going to meet her at the station.”