“And so,” he went on presently, “she made a resolve which few women would have found the courage either to make, or what is more important--to keep. She determined to stay with him only while his first passion lasted. She made up her mind to go even before the first cloud was in the sky,--at any rate before it was visible to _him_. Women have keener eyes than men for rising clouds.” The doctor was silent. “Rightly or wrongly,” he went on, “she felt that only in this way, only by running no risk of injuring either him or his career, she was justified in taking her little measure of happiness. She knew him very well,” he added meditatively. “René was as weak as most of us, weaker than some perhaps, where women are concerned. He would have been unfaithful, but he could never take his unfaithfulness callously. He would have been torn perpetually between his desires, and his dread of hurting her. And his work would have suffered terribly. Anne was right to go.” “You speak as an artist,” remarked the doctor drily. “I can speak in no other way,” returned François. “René Dampierre was a great man with a definite work to do.” “But Dampierre,--René Dampierre?” The doctor uttered the name with respect. “He must have died soon afterwards, surely?” “Eighteen months afterwards. But not, I regret to tell you, of a broken heart.” François placed the end of his cigarette in the ash-tray before him, and ground it to powder. His smile was a curious blend of sadness and irony. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?” “Yes. The result of a fall from his horse. He was riding at Chantilly.” “And you mean that----?” “That Anne was right to go. She knew the woman before René himself guessed the truth. She suffered I know, or perhaps as I _don’t_ know. But not so horribly, I think, as they would both have suffered if she had stayed. And she made her exit with dignity.” He smiled again. “I am a Frenchman, doctor, and I suppose the love of _le beau geste_ is in my blood. I take off my hat to Anne Page.” When Dr. Dakin spoke, it was in a voice from which he could not banish indignation. “It seems incredible! That he could forget a woman like that, I mean.” His own faithful nature rose up in revolt at the outrage to all his sentiments of enduring love. “He didn’t,” returned François quickly. “Anne had no real rival. She may rest in peace. Fate was kind to her--and perhaps to him,” he added. “Their love while it lasted, was perfect, and death settled the future. You are thinking that if any woman was worthy of fidelity it was Anne Page? I agree with you. But when a woman late in life falls in love with a genius----” he made a gesture with his hand, and left the sentence unfinished. “Tragic, doctor, I admit. But it’s life,--and Anne knew and accepted it.” The faint irony which he could seldom keep out of his voice, was almost submerged by something that sounded like real emotion.