Though late in the month, the day was fine and warm, and for the last time, tea was laid out of doors. Anne was very quiet and very pale.
Dacier and Thouret commiserated with her on the loss of her friend.
“But she’ll get well. It’s all right,” they assured her cheerfully.
François unobserved, watched her carefully.
René was also very silent, and François was grateful for the high spirits of the two boys. They insisted before leaving, that Anne should give them each a flower from her Shakespeare garden.
The flowers of middle summer filled the borders now.
“Here they are, all of them!” said François. “Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram and marigolds.”
“But none of you are middle-aged, so they are not for you,” Anne returned.
She picked a late rose for each of them, Dacier and Thouret receiving theirs with extravagant delight.
“It shall be buried with me,” Dacier exclaimed. “But not yet. I’ve got a few things to do first.”