“By her manner. She hasn’t any of the airs of a pretty woman. She thought we were laughing at her just now, in the garden.”
“If we made her think herself pretty, mon cher, she’d surprise us all. There are a thousand possibilities in that face.”
“Allons! I for one am quite ready,” laughed Dampierre. “I believe you’re right. She could be beautiful, though she’s not young. What do you think? Thirty-two, thirty-three?—or more?”
François shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. She’s one of the women for whom age doesn’t count—except as an improvement.”
“An unusual case.”
“Of course. But she’s unusual. I’m going to paint her.”
“Tea’s ready,” said Anne, appearing again at the window. “It was in the drawing-room, so I just had it carried out.”
She was quite at her ease now, and tea was a delightful meal under the flickering shade of the beech tree.
The men praised her French, inquired how she had learnt it so well; laughed and chattered; and finally took their leave, with many invitations to Anne. She must come to their studio, which was really only a barn. She must come to tea at the Falcon Inn. It was quite worth seeing. Above all, they must come back to the most charming garden in the world.
“Pour revoir la déesse du jardin,” added Thouret, lifting his hat with a flourish, as she stood in the porch, watching their departure.