“And in Shakespeare your name is ‘sweet Anne Page,’” added Fontenelle, “the prettiest English name in the world.”
A faint colour came to Anne’s face. She glanced from one to another with a look half shy, half pleased, half pitiful.
It gave place to a little movement of dignity.
“I’m glad you like my name,” she said.
In her voice there was a suggestion of fear. The fear that these strange yet pleasant young men were laughing at her. She took them across the sunny lawn, where the beech tree’s silken leaves had still the freshness of spring. A thousand birds were singing and calling. The scent of the lilac hung in the air, and the hawthorns were drenched in fragrant snow.
Before the irregular charming front of the house, the men paused, and breaking into French, poured out ecstasies of praise.
“Ravissant! Quelle belle ligne! Que c’est délicieux!”
“This is the library,” said Anne, as the men followed her through the open window into the dim beautiful room.
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.