They were all in the garden one afternoon, when the subject was first mentioned.
“This is delicious, charming, adorable!” exclaimed François, suddenly looking from the lawn across the level meadows, over which the sun was setting. “It has been a summer snatched out of Paradise. But we must be getting home to our daily toil.”
Tea was over, but the table, laden with silver and dainty china, had not yet been removed.
Anne sat near it, in a basket chair, an open book on her knee, from which at the men’s request she had been reading.
Her white muslin dress with its froth of frills trailed on the grass.
The muslin fichu crossed in front and knotted at the waist, revealed a glimpse of her long white throat.
Despite himself, François glanced at her curiously.
Her face was unmoved, but he fancied he detected the faintest tremor of the frills at her breast.
René was lying in a hammock slung beneath the beech tree, and the two younger men lay on the grass, smoking.
François’ remark was greeted with a torrent of invective from them.