His manner to her was charming, more charming perhaps than the manner of any of the others, though they all treated her with that flattering air of mingled deference and admiration to which she was growing accustomed. But despite herself, the little tremor of confusion when René addressed her, never ceased to trouble and embarrass her. In the company of François she was at her ease; interested, pleased, serene, ready to talk or to listen. René alone, though she loved him to talk to her, longed for it in fact with an intensity for which she often despised herself, never succeeded in effacing a secret inexplicable dismay.
The days passed on. May slipped into a radiant June. It was a brilliant summer, warm and sunny, the first happy summer Anne had ever known.
Early in their acquaintance Fontenelle had asked her to sit to him, and out of doors, in the garden of Fairholme Court, he made sketch after sketch.
He was always dissatisfied.
“It isn’t right!” he exclaimed time after time. “You are the most elusive creature in the world. I don’t think I know you well enough yet to get down what I want. But some day I will paint you. You are going to make my fortune!”
“Then you must come again—many times,” Anne said.
Even while she spoke, her smile died.
Next summer, who could tell where she might be? She could not blind herself to the seriousness of her friend’s illness.
And when she was gone?
Anne refused to look forward. Once long ago, Mrs. Burbage had told her she need not be anxious about the future.