“It is.”
“Then I think if what you say is true, an artist ought to keep out of the way of any woman who—cares. But he wouldn’t if she pleased him,” she added softly.
François laughed. “In your wisdom you have divined the natural selfishness of man,” he said.
As the months passed slowly on, a change, or rather a development gradual but steady, was taking place in Anne’s nature, a development that presently made itself manifest in her appearance, in her attitude, in her demeanour, physical as well as mental.
Slowly but surely, she was waking to the consciousness of her womanhood, and of her power.
The men whom she had grown to know intimately, regarded her with obvious admiration.
In their eyes at least, the eyes of artists, it was evident that she was not as she had hitherto imagined, destitute either of beauty or of attractive charm.
Ah! Voilà sweet Anne Page! She had grown used to the frequent exclamation when she appeared in the garden in which at Mrs. Burbage’s desire they were always free to come and go as they pleased.
It no longer made her feel embarrassed and uncertain as to its sincerity.
Her friends’ admiration for her had become a sort of cult. She was a new type, a woman to be praised—discreetly, with deference—yet praised. They brought to her the incense of a sincere flattery, and to Anne, starved of affection, unconsciously waiting for love, it was very sweet.