“Do you read these books?” he asked, smiling down at her.
“Yes,” said Anne, simply. “I read them for nearly five years. But I haven’t read anything lately,” she added, involuntarily.
“No? Why not?”
Again the colour rushed to her cheeks, and her companion, suddenly curious, wondered what he could have said to destroy her composure.
“I don’t know,” she answered hurriedly. “I have been so busy in the garden. Shall we have tea out of doors? It’s quite warm enough.”
She left him to give the order, and when the library door closed, François abandoned the books, and crossed the room to him.
“But she’s charming!” he exclaimed, speaking in English. “Isn’t it an unusual type? That clear pale face and the soft hair, and the soft voice? I shall get her to sit for me.”
“She’s accustomed to be thought exceedingly plain,” remarked Dampierre.
Fontenelle made an impatient gesture.
“By the usual idiot perhaps. How do you know?”