François regarding the scene with critical and observant eyes, noticed how frequently her glance wandered in René’s direction, and with amusement, her oft-repeated efforts to attract his attention. His own eyes turned again to Anne, where she stood surrounded by friends, laughing and talking. He watched her to-night with peculiar admiration. Curiously enough Dampierre had never painted her. Once soon after they had settled in their apartment, François had spoken of it as a foregone conclusion. “She’s just your type--the essentially feminine type of woman.” Greatly to his surprise, René shook his head. “_C’est impossible_,” he said conclusively. François wondered, but the conversation turned immediately upon other matters, and it was only just before he took leave, when Anne was out of the room, that his friend took a book from one of the shelves, and turning over the leaves, handed it to him at an open page. “That’s why I can’t paint her,” he said. The poem he touched with his forefinger was Browning’s song beginning-- “_Nay, but you who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress?_” François read it aloud, and came to the last few lines-- “_Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught--speak truth--above her? Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much!_” “For _praise_, read _paint_,” said René, taking the book and closing it. “It’s the same thing. You’re the man to paint her. Ask her to sit for you.” François had always delayed to avail himself of the suggestion. To-night he determined to delay no longer. Crossing the room, he joined the little group round Anne, and presently drew her away. “I haven’t had a word with you this evening,” he said. “And now you must give me one, or even two. About that portrait. I think the time has come. When will you sit for me?” Even at the moment, he was struck by the curious expression which crossed her face. When afterwards he tried to analyze it, he could only think of the face of a woman who expecting a signal of some sort, had heard, and accepted it. “When would you like me to come?” she asked. She was standing at the end of the room by the fire, and as she raised her eyes, François saw in them the look which did not escape him when he came to paint them. They discussed the matter for a few moments. Various engagements on both sides postponed the first sitting for a fortnight, but a day was finally arranged. “How long will it take?” asked Anne. He made a gesture of ignorance. “I don’t know. A month perhaps, with luck. But this is going to be my masterpiece, Anne. I shall succeed, or perish in the attempt. Have you got that flowered gown you used to wear in the garden at Dymfield? I suppose not. Yes? _Très bien!_ Bring it, I want to try an effect.” He was interrupted by René, who came up at the moment, and laid his hand lightly on Anne’s arm.